Turner never really spoke about Kayla. And the few times her name came up, a look of sadness would cross his face before he’d hurriedly change the subject. Back then, I figured it was because Kayla was some kind of tyrant teenager. But now, seeing the heartbreak on Kayla’s face, I wonder if maybe there was more to it.

But how could a good man like Turner call me family and neglect his own blood? It doesn’t make any sense.

Kayla and I don’t speak for the rest of the trip. When we finally turn onto Milly Manor Drive, I sit up and look out the window. I haven’t been here for almost a year, but everything looks the same. The same cracks in the sidewalk. The same trees.

Kayla slows down and parks in front of the large estate.

Staring up at the impressive home made of red bricks and trimmed with white, I can understand why the town of Copper Springs takes such great pride in the place. Rich ivy coats the outside of the house, sprawling up to the pitched roof and around the brick chimney. And bright green grass blankets the front yard, crawling up to the wooden white steps of the wraparound porch. The grounds are unkempt and heavily overgrown, an obvious sign that Turner never hired a replacement when I stopped caring for his yard, but even with all the unruly vegetation it’s a nice place. And with its location being so close to the town square, I’m sure it will make a great museum—or whatever else Copper Springs might make of it.

“Home sweet home,” Kayla mutters dryly.

I glare at her. “God, you’re bitter.”

Her hardened gaze drops to the steering wheel and becomes soft as snow in an instant. “Not usually,” she says quietly. Then she looks back at me with raw honesty in her eyes. “I’m sorry. This whole thing is just… hard for me.”

“Right. No. I get it,” I say, nodding as, once again, my defenses drop to the floor at the vulnerable look in her eyes.

Why the hell does this girl affect me like she does? One minute, I’m pissed at her for hating her father, and the next I want to comfort her and feed her cookies and shit. I’m a nutcase around her.

She turns the car off and we exit the vehicle the same way we got in, but this time I follow her out of the driver’s door. I can’t help but grin as I watch her butt wag in front of me as she tries to clamber out of the car with a grown man attached to her. She really does have a perfect ass. And the way it’s bobbing up and down in front of me is enough to make a man beg.

She catches me eyeing her and glowers. “Pervert.”

“You’re taking up my whole line of vision.” I grin. “What am I supposed to do, close my eyes?”

“Yes,” she snaps.

I snort. “Right.”

With a huff, she turns and drags us up the front steps of the porch. At the front door, she stops. Her gaze bounces around the doorknob, the mail slot, and the potted plant beside the welcome mat with sentiment and anger warring in her eyes, but she swiftly masks the battle with a look of indifference.

“Do you have a key?” I ask.

“Crap. No.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “I didn’t even think about the key. I should have asked Eddie back at the office.” She curses. “Now we have to drive all the way back.”

“No we don’t.” I walk back down the steps, pulling her along through the side gate. She fumbles after me, trying to keep up with my long strides, and more blonde hair falls loose around her face.

She swats a bug away from her face with a scowl. “Where are we going?”

I lead her to the garden against the back wall, where dozens of white roses grow. “Here.”

The red dirt at the base of the plants sticks to my shoes and I smile. When I first started taking care of the rose bushes, I hated the rare red topsoil because it got everywhere. My clothes, my shoes, my skin. But Turner insisted on using it, year after year. I inhale through my nose. Damn, I’m going to miss him.

I crouch—forcing Kayla to bend down a little—and pick up a small boulder at the base of the plants. Then I start digging through the red soil beneath.

Kayla’s cuffed hand flops around beside mine as she stares at me like I’m crazy. “Why are you clawing through the dirt?”

“Because…” I pull out a shiny silver key and grin. “I know where the spare key is.”

11 Kayla

Daren knows where the spare key is? Come on!

“How did you know that was there?” I say as we stand up.

He dusts off his hands and shrugs. “Your dad told me.”

I go to cross my arms, realize I can’t with our attached wrists, and settle for propping my free hand on my hip instead. “He just told you where the key to his million-dollar estate was buried?”

“Actually, he asked me to find a good place to hide it. So technically, I told him where it was buried.” He tilts his head with a smile. “Why do you look so angry?”

“I’m not angry.” I drop my hip hand and swallow back my jealousy. “I just find it hard to believe that he trusted you so much.”

His lips form a tight line. “That’s because you don’t know him as well as you thought.”

“Obviously.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “Whatever,” as he starts pulling us back through the yard and toward the front door. “Let’s just finish this.”

I stumble up the porch steps behind him—damn these high heels—and wait at his side as he sticks the silver key into the lock, then swings the door open.

Dust flurries float through the air, lit up by the sunlight spilling in from the doorway as we step inside.

The house smells the same as I remember. Like vanilla pipe tobacco and cherries. It’s a smell I associate solely with my father and for some reason my heart squeezes and my eyes begin to burn as I breathe it in. I close my eyes to keep the stinging at bay.

I can picture my father seated in his leather chair in the study, puffing on his old-fashioned Sherlock Holmes pipe while he leans back and reads one of his favorite books. Thin white swirls of smoke would lift out from the pipe and float up in the air until they disappeared into the tall ceiling. When I was seven, I remember giggling as he tried to blow out a perfect smoke ring for me. Being only a part-time pipe smoker, he was impossibly bad at smoke formations, but he tried anyway. The two of us ended up laughing as I sat in his lap on his leather chair with the scent of vanilla smoke teasing my nose.

“So.” Daren’s voice interrupts the memory and I open my eyes. “Where’s this suitcase closet?”

I shake off the nostalgia trying to cling to my skin and straighten my shoulders. “Over here.” I walk him through the living room and down the hall to a skinny door on the left. Then I open the closet.

Inside, several trench coats hang below a shelf of hats, and three old umbrellas stand propped up against the wall. And in the back, on the floor beneath the coats, is a blue suitcase.

“Jackpot!” Daren says with a smile.

I give him a disparaging look. “Jackpot? Really?”

His smile grows. “Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like me saying ‘jackpot’ is tacky. You know you wanted to say something just as clever. Like ‘Eureka!’ or ‘Tallyho!’ ” He raises his fist in exaggerated glee with each exclamation.

I try to look annoyed, but a small smile tugs at my lips when he adds “Bingo!” with an especially exuberant expression. What a goofball.

“I knew it.” He points at my smile. “You like me.” He shows off his dimple and nods. “You think I’m obnoxious but you still like me. Do you want to kiss again?” He leans in and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Oh my God. You’re ridiculous.” I drop my smile but can’t help the warmth that spreads over my cheeks and down my body. Because a tiny part of me does want to kiss him again. It’s such a foreign feeling for me, wanting to kiss a guy. Yearning to touch him. And I’m not sure if I like it. It makes me feel out of control, like I can’t trust myself.

My eyes sweep over his mouth where his lips, so soft and warm against mine last night, curl into another playful grin, and my heart skips a beat.

Maybe I can’t.

“Can we just do this already?” I say.

“What, kiss? Or have sex?” He looks around. “The floor is kind of dirty but if you insist…” He reaches for the button of his pants.

“Ugh. I’m done talking to you.” I kneel on the floor.

His smile widens. “Oh so now you want to give me a blow job? Make up your mind, woman.”

“Shut up.” I aggressively yank his wrist down so he’s forced to kneel beside me, where we’re within reaching distance of the suitcase. “I’m down here for the suitcase, you idiot.” I can’t help but glance at his jeans, remembering how large he felt in my hand last night.

“Here, I’ll get it.” He drops the teasing attitude and reaches for the suitcase. As he stretches out his arms, his biceps flex and I trail my gaze up his shoulders and over his profile.

He’s built like a model. Lean and cut, with a chiseled jaw and long eyelashes. His mouth is large and masculine but his lips look soft and he smells good. Again. Like citrus.

He slides the suitcase from the closet and positions it by our knees. It’s an old piece of luggage, with a hard outer casing and a thick plastic handle. Tipping the suitcase up at an angle, he pops open the latches. The lid sticks a little at first, but after working at the seam for a moment, he’s able to coax it open with his long fingers.

Inside are three sealed envelopes. One with Daren’s name on it, one with my name on it, and one that reads TO YOU BOTH.

Daren and I lift out the envelopes labeled with our names and take turns opening them. We find a note from my father inside each one.