Chapter 31

“That was harsh,” Shawnee said as Tori strolled back into the living room and tossed the candy box onto the cluttered coffee table.

Tori just wiggled her fingers in a give-it-to-me gesture. Shawnee cursed, but dug out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and slapped it into Tori’s hand. As much as she’d hoped for better this time around, Tori had been willing to put money on Delon showing up unannounced on Valentine’s Day, since it coincided with her dating deadline.

Damn, though, when she’d opened that door and seen him standing there, all hard body and melted chocolate eyes, with that hopeful smile…the déjà lust had blasted through her good intentions like a nuclear meltdown. If Shawnee hadn’t been there, Tori would’ve been slamming that door behind him as she dragged his extremely fine butt inside. Which was exactly why she’d invited Shawnee in for a postpractice beer.

She sidled around to peek out the front window. His car still sat in the driveway, as if he was trying to figure out what had just happened. Good. She intended to lay out some very clear ground rules this time, and if he wasn’t willing to play by them…well, better this sharp jab in the region of her heart than being gutted again.

Shawnee came to peer over her shoulder. “I never pegged him as a booty call guy.”

“You have sex with someone on a barstool two hours after you meet, it tends to warp his expectations.”

Shawnee choked on her beer. “You…him…on a—Jesus Christ, woman! You admit that to everyone?”

“Only if it comes up. No pun intended.”

Shawnee sputtered, spraying beer on the back of Tori’s neck. “Stop! I’ll have that fucking picture—and I do mean fucking in every sense of the word—stuck in my head until my dying day.”

“So sorry.” Tori’s voice was mocking, but her fingers clenched around the twenty-dollar bill as Delon’s headlights came on. He made an L-turn to pull onto the road and away, the taillights two lonely pinpoints of red in the darkness. Her heart twisted, recalling the stunned look on his face. She had been too harsh. Once she’d made her point, she should have at least invited him in. Should have…

Down at the end of the lane, Delon’s brake lights flared at the stop sign, but instead of turning onto the highway, the twin red beacons continued to glow like a pair of devil’s eyes, as if he was just sitting there…what?

Her phone rang, startling her. Shawnee stuck an elbow in her ribs, shoving her aside to snatch it from the counter. “Well, lookee who’s calling.” She turned away, nailing Tori with another elbow to hold her off. “Hey, Delon. This is Shawnee. Tough night. Shot yer ass right outta the sky, didn’t she?”

“Shawnee!” Tori made another grab for the phone and got straight-armed against the wall. Geezus. The woman was an animal.

“I gotta say, D, you really let me down,” Shawnee said, oblivious to Tori’s flailing. “And you cost me twenty bucks. But as long as you’re in the neighborhood and you brought that ugly-ass box of chocolates, you might as well come on back. Our little princess has made her point. And if she doesn’t want you, I’ll be happy to lick your wounded pride.”

Tori tried to bite the arm that pinned her to the wall.

“Gotta go. She’s gettin’ kinda testy. See you in a few.” Shawnee poked the End button and tossed the phone.

Tori scrabbled for it as it hit her in the chest. “You are a lunatic.”

Shawnee sauntered over and flopped into the recliner.

Tori stared at her. “You’re staying?”

“Oh, hell yeah. I ain’t missing the rest of this show.” She wiggled deeper into the chair and fixed an expectant gaze on the door like a kid waiting for a birthday clown to pop out.

“God, you suck.” Tori stomped over, grabbed her beer, and gulped down half of it.

The doorbell rang. Tori jolted like it was a shotgun blast and stood there, mentally flailing, until Shawnee hefted a foot and kicked her in the butt. “I ain’t got all night.”

Tori dragged reluctant feet toward the door. When she opened it, Delon stood on her front steps looking equally gobsmacked.

“Hi…again,” she said.

“Hi.”

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Shawnee said. “Come in and sit down.”

Delon’s eyebrows rose in question. Tori stood aside, then closed the door as he walked into her living room, step by careful step, like a man expecting a snare to yank his feet out from under him.

“Sit,” Shawnee ordered, pointing at one end of the couch. She gestured Tori to the other end. “You—sit there.”

They sat.

Shawnee sat up, folded her hands in her lap and lifted her chin. “Now, let’s see if we can’t straighten this out.”

“Excuse me?” Tori said. “What the hell—”

“Just call me Doctor Pickett.” Shawnee gave them a smarmy television shrink smile. “I am here to be sure you don’t screw this up every way to Sunday. Plus, I’m dying to know—did you really do her on a barstool?”

Delon shot a stunned glare at Tori. “You told her?”

“I warned you…” Tori waved a hand in front of her mouth.

Shawnee gave a gleeful snort. “Way to go, D. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

His face darkened to a shade Tori couldn’t describe but was pretty sure had something to do with dangerously high blood pressure.

“Never mind,” Shawnee said. “From what I understand, rocking the barstool wasn’t the problem. It’s what y’all did next.”

“What we…” Delon trailed off, his eyes glazing over from shock. “Did you tell her everything?”

“No!” Now Tori’s face burned like road rash. Or should she say rug burn? But she definitely had not said a word about the floor in front of the fireplace. Or the shower. Or…

“Holy shit. That good?” Shawnee snorted a laugh, then morphed back into the imperturbable Doctor Pickett. “As much as I’d love to explore the details of your physical relationship, I was actually referring to the part where you, Delon, left the next morning and didn’t call for almost a month, and then only when you were passing through and hoped for another roll in the hay. A pattern of behavior which Tori claims persisted throughout your relationship. Can you explain?”

Delon’s expression suggested he’d prefer to express his opinion of the question. Or jump up and run for his life. His gaze dropped to the floor and he mumbled something.

“A little louder please,” Shawnee prompted.

He drew a breath big enough to lift his shoulders and blurted, “I didn’t think she wanted me to call.”

“What?” Tori turned on him, sputtering. “You thought I liked having no idea when or even if you would show up again? Checking injury reports and rodeo results on the Internet so I knew you hadn’t broken your neck or run your car off into a river somewhere?”

He blinked at her. “You worried about me?”

Oh, that did it. She was gonna have to punch him. “Of course I worried, you dumbass. The miles you were putting in, driving day and night, all those rides…what did you think you were, a dildo with a pulse?”

Shawnee hooted, then tried to regain her faux professional demeanor, but couldn’t quite squash her grin. “Delon?”

“She was…I thought…I mean, after Violet told me…”

Fury reared up like a devil horse inside Tori, red-eyed and snorting flames. She grabbed her pillow off the back of the couch and choked it so she didn’t go for Delon’s throat instead. “Do not even talk to me about Violet.”

“I sense some serious hostility here,” Shawnee interjected. “What did Violet say that made you change your mind?”

Delon stared down at his boots in stony silence.

“I assume she suggested he should avoid repeating his brother’s mistakes,” Tori said flatly.

Shawnee narrowed her eyes at Delon. “Is she right?”

He jerked a shoulder, refusing to answer. Still protecting Violet. But hey, mother of his child and all that. Then he turned his glare on Tori. “If you wanted more, why didn’t you say so?”

“I…”

She got stuck, the ball of anger in her chest congealing into the familiar old lump of hurt and frustration. If she plastered the pillow over her face, would it all just go away? But no. She’d tried that, night after sleepless night, while every molecule in her body strained for the sound of the phone. A knock at the door. Incrementally less able with each passing hour to settle for whatever scraps of time Delon tossed to her, but afraid to lose him altogether.

She blew out a long, hissing breath. “You were just hitting your stride. The last thing you needed was a girl hanging on your leg every time you left town, whining about when she would see you again.”

If anything, that seemed to make Delon more furious. “So you acted like you couldn’t care less if I came back?”

“If I’d done more to show you how much I enjoyed your company, I would’ve been arrested for public indecency! Why would you think…shit.” She thumped the pillow down on her knees and buried her face in it to muffle her scream of frustration.

“You never said a word,” he insisted, sounding bullish.

“Neither did you!”

The silence crackled with static built of regret, sexual awareness, and the echoes of old pain. Shawnee’s voice cut through it, suddenly matter-of-fact. “So Delon assumed the Panhandle Princess was just kicking up her heels with one of the peasants, and Tori assumed you were happy to just take what you could as long as it was offered, and neither of you had the balls to tell the other what you wanted. Did I miss anything?”

Tori pushed up onto her elbows, raking her fingernails over her scalp as she shook her head. Delon followed suit.

“Excellent,” Shawnee declared. “Since we’ve agreed you were both fence-post stupid, my professional advice is to shake hands, agree to leave all that crap in the past, and start clean. Think you can manage?”

Tori angled Delon a doubtful glance. He met her gaze head on, his eyes full of that dogged intent. He stuck out his hand. Tori hesitated, then reached out to take it. A wave of heat rolled up her arm and rippled through her body at the familiar scrape of his palm against hers. The calluses were on his right hand now. Because he trusted her. Believed her when she said she could give him back his career. God, she hoped he was right.

Shawnee’s phone buzzed. She read the message and frowned before turning her attention back to Delon. “One last thing—you’re over that little fantasy about settling down with Violet to make a proper family for your boy, right?”

“Yes.” He spat the word out like a rotten sunflower seed.

“Good. That’s real good.” Shawnee held up the phone. “’Cuz according to my sources, Joe Cassidy just got down on one knee in the middle of the dance floor at the Lone Steer and asked her to marry him.”

* * *

Tori pushed the door shut behind Shawnee and sagged against it. “Dear mother of God. That woman is barely housebroke.” She shoved away from the door and strode to the refrigerator. “Do you want a beer? Because I’m having another. Maybe two. Hell, I might just clean up the six pack.”

If Delon hadn’t been driving, he would have helped her. He slumped deep into the couch, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. Slow. Steady. He should know how to keep his shit together, even when his heart was racing, his muscles quivering as if he stood on the back of chutes, feeling like his whole body would be blown apart by adrenaline. Control was always the key.

Tori set a chilled bottle in his hand. “If I’d had any idea what she had in mind, I would’ve screamed at you to run like the wind.”

The couch jolted when she plunked down on her end. Delon stuck the beer bottle between his knees and laced his fingers behind his head so that on the off chance his skull actually did explode, his brains wouldn’t splatter on the walls—although it might be an improvement. To the walls, not his brain. He opened his eyes. It looked like someone’d painted the place with a broom and a vat of mustard, then slapped down a dingy gray industrial carpet remnant. But the coffee table was cool, made of an old iron wagon wheel with legs welded on and a glass top. In the pie-shaped, felt-lined slots between the spokes, trophy buckles gleamed in the feeble glow of the dusty overhead light. The pair closest to Delon were both from a roping in Sheridan, Wyoming: one for champion header, the other champion heeler. Tori and Willy, roping together.

Delon dodged that thought, letting his gaze wander the rest of the room. Other than a miniature grandfather clock, the shelves of the entertainment center held a stack of DVDs, a couple of pictures, and a few books propped up at one end by one of those fancy glass candy dishes people give for wedding presents—probably priceless crystal, if it came from her side of the family. It doubled as a depository for spare keys and crumpled receipts. The bowl on the other end was made from an old rodeo rope coiled around and around.

The only other decor was a ridiculous metal armadillo dressed up as a cowboy, with a Shiner Bock bottle cradled in his horseshoe arms. What the hell…?

Delon shook his head, but couldn’t help a grin, which faded as he continued to take in the lack of much of anything that would make the place feel like a home. Just the big leather couch, the recliner, the coffee table, and those few random objects on the shelves, as if she’d opened one box, unpacked the contents, then lost interest. Or figured what was the point, when she was just gonna pack it all up again sooner or later?

Tori rolled her head to look at him, the movement weary and boneless, and he was struck by a fervent wish that the couch wasn’t quite so big. She was too far away to loop an arm around her shoulders and pull her up snug against him. Just to talk. Share body heat. Maybe one kiss. Or two…

She tipped her face away, breaking eye contact. “That is one ugly box of candy.”

“Beni picked it out. He always goes for the biggest and brightest.”

Tori shot him a startled look. “Beni picked out my valentine?”

“Uh, sort of. He had to get one for Violet, so I figured as long as we were at it…”

“Wow. A secondhand valentine. You are a true romantic.” Her voice was dry enough to dehydrate prunes.

“I thought it would make you laugh.” But like everything else about this evening, he’d misjudged it. Badly.

“Sorry. I was too busy making a point to get the joke.” She set her beer aside, hoisted one hip to pull out a pocketknife—yeah, this Tori packed a knife, and why was that so sexy?—and sliced open the cellophane. “So. Joe proposed.”

“Apparently.” But he preferred to shove that in a very tiny box in the darkest corner of his head, so it didn’t ruin whatever chance he had to salvage this night.

Tori lifted the top off the box and took her time picking out a chocolate. He braced himself for How do you feel about that, Delon? Then he would either have no answer or say something totally wrong, and either option would put Violet as squarely between them as if she’d plopped down on the couch.

Tori finally chose a chocolate, settled back, and bless her heart, left it alone. “Beni was pretty pumped about golfing with the Sanchez men. First time?”

“Yeah. We’ve never…” He fumbled for a good reason, and shrugged. “We’ve just been too busy, I guess.”

“Easy to let that stuff slide.” She held up the chocolate between two fingers, examining it as if trying to determine the filling before biting in. “My sister and I have talked more since the divorce went public than in the last ten years. I like her. I want to know her better. We’ve missed a lot, but I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Ah. Not a change of subject after all. “And you think I should do likewise?”

She nibbled a corner of the chocolate, taking time to choose her words. “I think you and I have underestimated our families, and it’s not all bad that circumstances have forced us to take a closer look.”

He couldn’t argue. It felt good to say “the Sanchez men” and know it meant more than an accidental collection of humans who shared the same genetics. He and Gil might never get back to what they had once been, but that might not be all bad, either. They were men now, eye to eye and working side by side, rather than Delon forever being the little brother, looking up.

“I read your mother’s press release,” he said.

She lifted her beer in a mocking toast. “An exquisite blend of sorrow, self-reproach, and a sprinkling of martyrdom, without a single passive-aggressive cheap shot. Bravo, Claire. And pray to God it gets the media off our backs.”

Delon wasn’t optimistic. Texans had latched on to Tori with an obsession that would turn any Hollywood publicity whore green with envy. She was the mystery girl, the prodigal daughter, the tragic widow, and people couldn’t get enough of speculating. Spying. And flat out making shit up. In the past week, the Keeping Up with the Pattersons page had linked Tori with the governor’s son, a country music star, and a married surgeon at Panhandle Medical Center. A clairvoyant had claimed to act as intermediary for her conversations with her deceased husband.

“This isn’t a trick…your mother is really throwing in the towel?” he asked.

“The lawyers are divvying up their personal possessions as we speak. Shouldn’t take long, since she’s not contesting the prenup.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

She nibbled another corner off the chocolate. “We had a nice mommy-daughter chat over the weekend. I was cautiously optimistic that she recognized her options were limited. Plus that ever so gracious statement left the door wide open for a reconciliation.”

Reconcil… “Is she delusional?”

“Claire is the most lucid human being you’ll ever meet. It’s the worst thing about her.” Tori took a sip of her beer, made a face, and set down the chocolate. Her priorities were clear. “She sat down and calculated the odds of a man of his age, social, and financial status finding his soul mate while fighting off swarms of gold diggers, and decided they were in her favor. She practically said so.” Tori’s voice went silky smooth. “It will be so difficult to move on alone after all these years. I only wish we could turn back the clock. And my favorite part—Richard and I are the best of friends. He knows I’ll always be here for him.”

Dear Lord. She was right. “Do you think he’d go back?”

“Depends on how many times he gets kicked in the nuts when he gets out there.” She circled a hand in the air to indicate the world in general. “Hopefully freedom turns out to be everything he dreamed of. Dating is hard enough for normal people.”

Dating. Right. Delon had started this evening with a purpose, which had been derailed the moment he knocked on Tori’s door. “Do you still like barbecue?”

“Was I born in Texas?” she asked dryly, then gave him a speculative look. “What do you have in mind?”

“Someplace quiet. You don’t even have to change clothes.”

Their eyes met, got tangled up for a few breathless heartbeats, and then she smiled. “Give me a minute to knock the worst of the dirt off.”

She disappeared down the hall. Delon sank back into the couch, dragging in what felt like his first real breath in hours. Okay. Not quite how he’d planned it, but phase one, complete. Now if he could just pull off the rest.