Ginger had chosen to become a nurse after her grandmother had been transferred to Silver Springs, three years ago—hell, she spent so much time visiting Gran and volunteering there, she already knew the facility inside out and most of the residents by name. When they had first moved Gran to Silver Springs, she seemed to improve. Seemingly cheered by the camaraderie of other seniors (she affectionately called Silver Springs the Old Folks Country Club), she still got around on her own and became very popular in many different social circles at the residence half of the facility. But just last month, Gran had taken two falls, the second worse than the first, and fractured a rib. And while the doctors had grudgingly decided that she didn’t require a wheelchair quite yet, she was in significant to severe gait decline, which had affected her spirits. She had to start considering a move to the Silver Springs Care Center across the street, which was little more than a really lovely nursing home with proper hospital facilities.
Between Gran and Woodman, both frustrated by the limitations of their bodies and taking it out on those around them, it promised to be a terrific autumn, she thought sourly, then quickly chastised herself for such unkind thoughts. She was able-bodied, healthy and hearty—she had no right to judge Gran, whose traitorous body was giving up on her way too soon, or Woodman, who was retired from a job he loved at twenty-one and would likely be crippled for life.
“I’m just tired,” she muttered, turning into her driveway. “I’ll get into bed, and it’ll all look better in the mornin’.”
But her intentions were thwarted when she saw a lone figure, standing by one of the paddock fences, turn in the spotlight of her headlights and face her car. She couldn’t really make out more than a tall silhouette, but she knew who it was. She knew exactly who it was, and her breath caught as her eyes burned with sudden and tiresome tears. As she braked without thinking, she clenched her fingers around the steering wheel and braced herself to come face to face with heartache after three years apart.
He raised his hand in greeting, crossing in front of her car to come say hello, and though it vaguely occurred to her to hit the gas and run him over, she decided that homicide would only make a bad night worse, so she pulled up the emergency brake and rolled down the window instead.
And—Lord Jesus, Mother Mary, and all the saints in heaven—he’d somehow gotten even better-looking while he was gone. Her lips parted, and a soft, whimpering sound escaped from her throat, but she prayed he didn’t hear it. If anything, he looked a little unsettled himself to be in her presence again. As he strolled over to her car and rested his hands on the windowsill, she clamped her lips shut and tried desperately for a cool expression. She had no idea if she succeeded, because she was so distracted by the throbbing of her pulse in her ears.
She might have murmured “Welcome home,” but she couldn’t be sure.
“Hey, princess.”
Princess.
Her heart, brimming with too much emotion to bear, thundered at the sound of his voice saying the beloved old nickname. She tried not to smile, working hard to scowl instead. Cutesy nicknames would only make her fall again, and falling for a pig like Cain was a recipe for more heartbreak. She’d already had her fill, thank you very much.
“Ginger’s good.”
“Yes, she is,” he drawled, smirking at her.
Out of nowhere, fury erupted within her.
Unbelievable.
You stood me up for a dance three years ago without so much as an apology, and now you have the gall to flirt with me? She scoffed, looking down at the emergency brake, tempted to release it and speed away.
“Some things never change.”
“How d’you mean?”
Looking up, she nailed him with a look that conveyed all the hurt still wallowing around in her heart. “Still the shallow flirt, huh?”
Wincing, he lifted his hands from her windowsill and stepped away from the car, having the audacity to look hurt. He swiped at his lower lip—which only served to make her stare at it and remind her of how it felt moving on hers, damn him!—with his thumb before putting his hands on his hips.
“Still mad, huh?”
Her lungs tightened, and the tears burning her eyes doubled, but damn if she’d let him see how much his flippant comment hurt. It was the first he’d ever acknowledged standing her up, and apparently there was no apology forthcoming.
Yes! she wanted to cry. Yes, I’m still mad. Yes, I’m still hurt. Yes, you broke my heart. And yes, you made me insecure about the way I kissed. And yes, if Woodman hadn’t taken me to the goddamned dance . . . Woodman . . . Woodman.
“Just saw Woodman,” she blurted out, looking up at Cain and blinking back the tears. Woodman was mad at her, and Cain was still a jackass, and all she wanted was to zoom away from him, race into Gran’s old cottage and hurl herself onto her bed for a nice, long cry. But she had too much dignity to run away, so she lifted her chin and opted for polite conversation instead. “Thanks for bringin’ him home.”
Cain shrugged, his teasing expression sobering. “I’d do anythin’ for him.”
“Me too,” she said, the words coming easily.
Their eyes met, and for a moment—just for a split second—she thought she saw more than smirky flippancy there. She saw regret and wonder and longing and so many other soft and wonderful things, she held her breath. His hand moved from his hip, toward her face, and, holding his eyes, she tracked his fingers in her peripheral vision, leaning just slightly toward him so he could touch her face. Her whole body trembled as her eyes fluttered closed, and she remembered how it felt for him to palm her cheek, to kiss her, to—
The squeaking noise of the side-view mirror being adjusted made her eyes whip open in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair and grin at his reflection.
“How do I look?” he asked, winking at her.