Chapter 1

“Those two seem chatty. They bothering you?” Cleona’s regular customer said from his usual corner booth.

Cleona glanced at the pretty, yet strange redhead on the other end of the diner talking to the rugged man across from her. Her hands flew between them as she leaned across the table talking a mile a minute. 

“They’re not bothering me any more than you are popping in here for breakfast every morning,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek to hide her smirk.

From the day Leander Braden saw her rolling her mother’s wheelchair to the end of the lane to catch the public bus that took her to her therapy sessions, he’d been having breakfast at the diner daily, and leaving her ridiculous tips.

A hundred percent ridiculous.

And considering he had bought the trailer park, next to the diner, where she lived with her mother, making him her landlord, he ended up handing her back more than half of her rent over the course of a month.

“A man has to eat,” Leander said, giving her a grin that looked fit for a guy lounging naked on soft sheets as he crooked a finger at the woman he wanted to join him there.

“Uh huh. Look, can I get you anything else?” she asked with a quick glance back at the redhead. There was something about her…Cleona couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it’s like she knew her. Not that they had met, she’d remember that. She had an excellent memory, almost too good.

It was more a familiarity, as if in another time, another place—she shook her head.

She was being silly. She blamed that imagination of hers. She had this unusual knack for creating fantastical images in her head. For years, her mother pressed her to write fantasy novels or learn how to bring those images to life through graphic art, but nope, Cleona ran off with the wrong guy, supported him for four years working two jobs just to have him take off with what little they had and forcing her to move back with her mother.

“I’d love another cup of coffee,” Leander said, pulling her from the dregs of her past.

“Coming right up,” she said, heading for the machines behind the counter.

Sam, the diner owner and head cook, sidled up next to her. “He bothering you?” Sam asked nodding toward Leander.

“What is it with everyone today? You want to know if he’s bothering me. He wants to know if they’re bothering me. They’re acting weird. Is there something in the water?” she asked, sliding the carafe out by the orange handle.

Sam glanced over at the couple, his dark skin pinching at the mouth, his eyes narrowed. She followed his gaze and sure enough, the pretty redhead’s head snapped around to face her boyfriend.

“Are you in some sort of trouble I should know about?” he asked.

“For the first time in a long time, no, I’m not in any trouble—ah, shit!” she yelped, hopping back as the edge of her palm landed on the burner and searing heat shot into the meat of her hand.

“Come here, mia cara,” Sam said, defaulting to the Italian endearment he used for his female staff who he treated as daughters.

He grabbed her wrist, flipped on the tap, and shoved her hand under the faucet.

Cold water rushed over her palm as a throb settled deep into the flesh and beat in time with her heart. “Dammit, that hurts,” she muttered, watching as her skin turned pink, whether from the cold water or burn she didn’t yet know.

“Yes, and it’s going to blister. Here, let me take that,” he said, easing the carafe from her other hand.

“I was supposed to refill—”

“Shh, mia cara. I’ll take care of it. Keep your hand under the water,” he said, shuffling around the counter and heading for Leander.

She dropped her forehead to her free hand and sighed. Just what she needed. Her shift was almost over for the morning, but she’d be back for the dinner rush and wouldn’t balancing hot plates on a burnt palm be all sorts of fun?

She turned off the water, shook off her hand, and laid it in a white towel, flinching at the patch of skin that had turned white and bubbled up.

Sam slid in beside her, replaced the carafe, and winced after a quick glance at her palm. “Go on home and get some salve on that. I’ve got things here. Call me this afternoon and let me know how you’re doing.”

She wrapped the towel around her hand and fought tears at the sting. “Are you sure? I hate leaving you here alone.”

Despite her mother having Parkinson’s and being wheelchair-bound, Cleona had never missed even five minutes of a shift. She needed the money too much. Her mother had state insurance, but there were some treatments not covered that Cleona worked for. Specifically, the therapy that kept her mother as comfortable as possible and preserved the mobility of her shaking hands.

“Ahhh,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Martha will be here in a half hour and your admirer over there will be done momentarily. They should be done soon, too,” Sam said, waving a hand toward the couple sitting by the door.

“He’s not my fella,” she said, but her focus drifted to the redhead again.

The woman didn’t turn away this time, instead she openly stared at Cleona.

Now the woman was just making it weird.

She grabbed her purse from under the counter. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to slip out the back.”

“Do that and make sure you call me,” he said, shuffling her along with a hand to her back.

The door smacked shut behind her, and she jogged down the three wooden steps to the soil and gravel ground speckled with the occasional patch of weeds. The heat had kicked up into the eighties and flies swarmed in the rotten stink rolling off the dumpster. The humid breeze carried off the putrid scent.

With the back employee lot connected to the packed dirt lane leading into the modest trailer park, Cleona avoided the customers that had eyed her all morning.

Even better, she avoided Leander.

Dated in design, but freshly painted single-wide trailers sat evenly spaced on bright-green patches of grass. Spring had sprung, and daffodil shoots shot out of the ground, stretching toward the sun.

She could almost forget that she had ended up living in a trailer park after the bitch queen, Stacy Killion, of Lakeview High and her minions had resorted to successfully getting everyone to label Cleona trailer trash in high school, all because Brandon Phelps, jock extraordinaire had asked Cleona to prom, not Stacy.

There was no shame in where she lived. Just the stain of old memories spilling over. Old memories Cleona gave too much power at times.

Any other day, she’d take a few minutes to savor the beauty of nature blooming along the edges of the properties, but instead, her feet ate up the distance past the first three neighbors, her sights on her modest single-wide, six trailers in. She just wanted to take a breath in her own space and lick her wounds for a few minutes.

Was that too much to ask?

She ducked her head and sent up a silent prayer that Mrs. Creesy wasn’t outside watering her flowers yet. Otherwise the woman would hijack her for another drawn out debate over the trials and tribulations of Nick Newman on The Young and the Restless.

Cleona hated soap operas, and she’d entertain the possibility of a thug yanking her fingernails out one by one if she could be assured that she’d never have the conversation with her chatty neighbor again.

With her front door in sight, adorned with the straw wreath her mother had made at the senior center hanging in the middle, she jogged the last few feet, ran up the steps, and slipped inside.

She slumped against the door and slid down to the floor, her purse dropping onto the worn carpet next to her.

The scent of this morning’s coffee still lingered in the air, one of her favorite things about her home. It might be small and low-end quality, built for affordability, not flash, but the smell of her favorite foods and coffee hovered hours afterward.

She sighed and closed her eyes, dreading the moment she had to open the towel to look at the damage. Salve wasn’t going to do a whole hell of a lot for blisters, other than taking some bite out of the sting, but—

The sting.

She opened her eyes and glanced around.

Why didn’t her hand hurt?

Probably shock.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

The door vibrated behind her head with the knocking.

“It’s me, Cleona,” Leander called from the other side of the door.

She winced. “It’s not a good time, Leander,” she called back.

“I saw what happened and spoke to Sam. He reluctantly asked me to make sure you have everything you need to take care of the burn,” he said.

“Dammit all to hell and back,” she muttered, rolling to her side and onto her knees, catching one knee on the metal stripping that held the edge of the carpet where it met the small patch of vinyl flooring in front of the door.

She used her elbow on the arm of the couch to climb to her feet. Yanking open the door, she huffed out a breath in an effort to blow her long bangs out of her face.

“Let me see what you did,” he said, stepping into her living room.

He loomed over her, his wide shoulders shrinking the size of the room by at least half with his combination of strength and the air of authority that always seemed to surround him.

Must be nice to walk the world with confidence.

Every time she thought she had taken the right road, she’d come across a section under the rush of a swollen river that broke its bank and in her infinite wisdom, she’d convince herself that she could drive right through just to have the rush of angry water wash her away into a total shitstorm.

Just once, she wanted to know the right thing to do without rushing into a situation without a thought as to the consequences.

“It’s fine, and I’m not so jazzed about looking at it just yet if you don’t mind,” she shot back.

He nudged her chin, tipping her face up to his. And damn how just that simple touch set fire to her skin in a whole different way than the sear of the burn. “Point me in the direction of your first aid kit while you muster up the courage to inspect the damage.”

She licked her dry lips, realizing too late how the gesture looked.

And he noticed. His steel-gray eyes shot with shards of charcoal narrowed on her mouth and his chest swelled.

She’d been avoiding this pull between them for three months, not trusting herself or her self-control. She’d lain in her cold bed alone for so many nights that she questioned her attraction being genuine and not just her reaching for a hot-blooded man.

A hot-blooded man made of head-to-toe hard muscles topped with a close-cropped beard that her fingers itched to touch.

She was a sucker for facial hair.

And muscles.

Which is why she kept ending up with the wrong guy.

“It’s in the cabinet over the fridge,” she whispered.

“What is?” he asked as he grazed his thumb over her bottom lip.

“You asked where the first aid kit was. Remember?” she said breathlessly.

He shook his head and side-stepped her. “Oh. Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat.

It only took three steps for him to make it to the kitchen which made Cleona wonder how he managed to live in his trailer in the back. His place was a one-bedroom, hers two.

He looked like the kind of man that needed space. Maybe it was the Harley he rode and his swagger. What did he do when he got mad and needed to pace it off?

An image flashed in her mind of him flying into a rage, his muscles swelling and bulging, his skin turning green, and the four walls of his trailer bursting at the joints and falling to the ground around him.

She stifled the laugh, which unfortunately came out as more of a snort, as he headed for her, kit in hand.

“I’ve never seen someone who keeps it in the kitchen rather than the bathroom.”

“I have more accidents in the kitchen,” she said.

His gaze dropped to her hand. “Apparently.”

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

“Who the hell is it this time?” she muttered, rubbing her forehead with her good hand.

She yanked open the door and standing there…

The redhead and behind her the guy she was with.

Cleona’s heart took off at a gallop as anger surged through her. “You followed me? What the hell is wrong with you people?” Cleona said, dropping her hand to her hip.

“Who followed you?” Leander said, sliding in front of her and blocking their entry.

“Look, I know this seems weird, but we’re normal. Honest,” the redhead said, holding her hand up as if her other lay on a bible.

“Who are you?” Leander demanded as he put his arm back, blocking Cleona.

“Stop that,” Cleona said, shoving him. Not that it worked.

He didn’t budge.

She raised up on tiptoes to peer over his shoulder.

Leander crossed his arms. “Well? I better get an answer, or I’m calling the police.”

Emerald-green eyes locked on Cleona’s own, matching ones. “I’m Cleona’s sister.”