Come Home to Me. Brenda Novak

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       4

      Aaron located what had to be Presley’s yoga studio from its proximity to Reflections by Callie. He had pictured the old antiques emporium as soon as Kyle and Riley mentioned it. But it was worth coming by to see how far along she was in the process of opening. He was curious about her and everything she was doing; he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind since running into her last night. So he’d told himself he’d swing by on his way to Reno. If she happened to be alone, maybe he’d stop and say something, get what he was thinking and feeling off his chest. It didn’t seem fair that she suddenly seemed to believe the worst of him. Not when he’d been convinced that she was one of the few people who truly understood him.

      But then he saw Riley Stinson’s truck parked in front and he pulled over—even though she clearly wasn’t alone. She wasn’t open for business yet. So why was Riley hanging around?

      He decided to find out.

      The high-pitched whine of an electric saw cut through the air as he crossed the street, and he could see a ladder and some paint tarps through the wide storefront windows.

      The door had been propped open for ventilation. For a moment, he stood at the threshold, watching Riley check the length of a piece of wood he’d just cut. Presley wasn’t around. Maybe she was in another room. That he was glad she was out of earshot, glad he had the chance to confront Riley alone, told him he shouldn’t be here. He’d been in a terrible mood ever since he’d encountered her at the bookstore. The fight with Dylan hadn’t helped and neither had the sleepless night he’d spent trying to convince himself that he didn’t care if Presley no longer wanted him in her life.

      He’d let her go easily enough two years ago, hadn’t he?

      Not that easily. He had thought about her a hell of a lot, at odd hours when it was late and the house was quiet. He’d missed her, missed the fun they used to have and the excitement she’d brought him in bed. But missing her didn’t really explain why he was so out of sorts. He should be glad she’d moved on. There’d been plenty of instances when he’d wished she would. He’d known all along that she cared more than he did, and that kind of thing never ended well.

      “Hey!” he called.

      Riley whipped his head around. Then he turned off the saw and lowered the goggles protecting his eyes. “How’s it going?”

      Still no sign of Presley. “Where is she?” Aaron asked.

      Riley didn’t ask who. That was obvious. “Had to take her little boy home. She was up all night, patching the walls in here, so I’m hoping she’ll catch a nap, too. But, stubborn as she is, she’ll probably come right back.”

      He was talking as if he knew Presley well—but he didn’t. Not really. No one in Whiskey Creek, except Cheyenne, knew her as well as Aaron did. Like him, Presley had always been an outsider, someone regarded with distrust. He’d never cared much about what other people thought. He didn’t let their opinions bother him. But Presley hadn’t grown the same thick skin. “So you’re working alone?”

      Using a measuring tape, Riley marked the board where he wanted to make his next cut. “For the moment.”

      Aaron kicked a loose nail that’d fallen to the tarp back and forth between his feet. “I didn’t realize she’d hired you to build her tenant improvements. You didn’t say anything about it at the bookstore.”

      “I didn’t know I’d be doing this.”

      He sauntered closer, eyeing what Riley was building. “Receptionist’s station?”

      Riley blew the sawdust from his hands, then brushed off his white T-shirt. “That’s right.”