“It’s nothing.”

Her hazel eyes—the same color as mine and Mama’s—narrowed with concern. “You been fightin’ again, Tracemore?”

“Naw. C’mere.” I hugged her close to stifle her questions, mindful of my sore ribs and her messy hands. A lump wedged in my throat. I didn’t think I’d ever hold my big sister again as a free man. “Damn, I missed you.”

“Missed you more,” she said, sniffling. “Amber had to go sign some papers for the rental car she got, but she’ll be back. I put her bag in your room.”

That was a relief. I could use some of Amber’s TLC. We were ‘friends with benefits’—great sex with no commitment, which suited me just fine because I didn’t want strings and neither did she. The girl loved her freedom.

“Before I forget.” She rested her chin atop my chest. “I may have a lead on a carpentry job for you. Now nothin’s set in stone, but Zoe Dillon’s husband owns a construction company, and they’re in the running for a big contract. It’s with the city to build a new library. She said she’d put in a good word for you.”

Zoe and Bev had been friends for years, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

I fingered Bev’s ponytail, smelled it. “I thought you said you quit?”

She buried her face in my shirt. I could feel her grin. “God’s just testing me,” she told me, her voice full of sass.

Ever since Bev found Jesus three years ago, He, let her tell it, had kept her busy. The Lord was an easy scapegoat for her nicotine addiction.

She gazed up at me again. “I’ll serve you as soon as dinner’s done, but I can’t stay. I gotta get home.”

To that wife-slapping crackhead. “Soooo what’d you make?” I asked, keeping my thoughts to myself.

“All your favorites. T-bone steak. Mashed potatoes and broccoli.” She pecked my cheek, grabbed the bowl, and set off down the hall. “There’s Herradura in the fridge,” she said over her shoulder. “Cold, just the way you like it. I put fresh towels in the closet, a new robe in the bathroom, and a bottle of Mr. Bubble on the sink. Oh, and Shannon Bradford called.”

TRACE

____________________________

“Shoot.” Amber canvassed the busy parking lot. “Where the hell is the car?”

I strode beside her lugging a dolly weighted down with renovation equipment and supplies. Cupping a hand over my brow, I squinted against the biting wind. The day was sunny, but a cold front was expected to slide in after dark, bringing an unseasonable ten inches of snow. Not surprisingly, Home Depot had morphed into a hornet’s nest of panic buying.

“There.” I pointed, picking up the pace. “By the Hummer.”

The trek to the car was treacherous. Black ice and potholes abounded. When we finally reached Amber’s SUV rental, my relief was short-lived. A rude shout greeted us—this from one of five teenage punks loitering by the dumpsters several yards away.

“Yo, Butcher Boy. What’d you buy?”

“Garden tools,” the idiot next to him blurted with a cough.

A burst of laugher followed.

Another hollered, “Psycho!”

“Fuckin’ nutjob!” someone else yelled.

“Ignore them,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I stabbed the remote at the car and yanked the hatch open. “Just a bunch of dumb ass kids.”

“Hey, baby,” the first boy yelled at Amber. “If you’re still alive tomorrow, call me.” He shook his junk. “I may have a home improvement project for you.”

“I’ll prolly need a microscope to find it,” she fired back.

I blasted her with a glare. “What are you doin’?”

“Eat me, bitch,” the crotch-grabber retorted.

She smiled, tilted her head, and flashed a one-finger salute.

“Amber!” I barked.

“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “The little bastard had it coming.”

I ignored the dull ache in my ribs and snatched a set of power rollers and a can of paint off the dolly. “Get the hell in the car before you get me arrested.”

“Don’t worry, shug. I’ve got your back.”

No doubt she did. Though her close-cropped black hair and violet eyes made her look like a pixie, the leggy ex-prison guard held a concealed weapons permit and two black belts—one in karate, the other in aikido.

She grabbed a snow shovel and grinned. “Speaking of arrests, I still have my handcuffs if you want to play later. I’ll even spring for the honey and whipped cream.”

I fought a smile. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“I can think of a few things,” she said with a saucy wink.

By the time we finished loading the car, the punks had moved on. I hopped in and was about to start the engine when Amber began squirming in her seat.

“Oh, my God. Look.” She nudged her chin. “That’s my girl Neecie—and she’s got her baby boy with her! Give me a minute, okay? I haven’t seen her since they let her out of rehab.” She smashed a kiss against my cheek. “Be right back.”

She threw the door open and giggled her way over to a blue Sentra in the next aisle.

Women.

I sat for a time picking at a hangnail until my stitches started bothering me. I adjusted the rearview mirror and eyed my chin. Damn if the cut didn’t itch something fierce. So did the tape on the bandage.

I was seconds away from a scratching fit when a blur of blonde hair whisked past my peripheral vision. I jerked the mirror to the right. Aw, hell. It was her. Shannon Bradford, one row behind me, fighting with a shopping cart. As she pushed, the thing pushed back, its wheels slipping and sliding over the icy pavement.

Clearly, God, the devil, or both were determined to screw with me. Bad enough one of her damn billboards stood big as day on the same street as Fontana Exxon. Every morning her sunny face greeted me, and now this. I squeezed my lids shut, and tried to forget she was out there, but curiosity chomped at my insides.

Fuck it.

I scooted forward and snagged the mirror again, just in time to witness a bag of rock salt topple from her cart and slap the ground. The plastic burst open, spitting pellets everywhere. Shoppers streamed around her, too consumed by their own Snowmageddon madness to care.

Before I even realized it, I’d wrapped my hand over the door handle.

Oh, hell no. Caution made me uncurl my fingers. I glanced across the dashboard. Amber had since climbed into Neecie’s car and was gabbing away. With Amber being Amber, they’d be jawing for at least another ten minutes. I glared up at the roof and tried to talk some sense into myself, but three seconds later, I was slamming out of the car, muttering curses the whole way.

Even as I stood behind her, I regretted it, but for whatever dumb reason, I couldn’t leave. “Need some help?” I muttered, my voice taut with irritation.

Wearing a brown sheepskin jacket, jeans, and ankle boots, Shannon tore around. The broken bag in her arms hit the ground again in a mad spray of salt. “Jeez. You scared me.” She eyeballed the lot as she knelt to stuff handfuls back into the busted sack.

“You want some help or not?”

“No thanks,” she said, her gaze still sweeping the area.

I smiled.

We’d been the talk of the town for the past few days, so clearly little Miss Priss was dealing with the backlash. Why else would she be casing the parking lot like she stole something? Now she’d been seen consorting with the infamous Butcher Boy again. God, I was trying not to enjoy this, but her paranoia only made me want to extend my visit.

“Move,” I grumbled. “You’re just making a bigger mess.” My sore ribs screamed when I snatched the ruined bag off the ground—a twenty pounder—but I bit back the pain. “Why didn’t you send Jeeves to pick this stuff up for you?”

“His name is Gerard,” came her curt correction. She shoved to her feet, smacking salt from her hands. “Anyway, this ‘stuff’ isn’t for Briar. It’s for a property I’m showing next week. The place is special, so I don’t mind doing—oh, forget it.”