The garage door eased open, and they pulled slowly in, stopping just shy of a tarp loosely covering a pile of what looked like lumber and tools. Fuck, he hoped Jeremy hadn’t tried to take on another project. In front of Ellen’s little SUV, there was a stack of weights and rolled up mats, colorful and shiny and new.
As they came to a stop, Jeremy looked over at him, grinned, and shook his head. “It’s going to take me a while to grasp that you’re really home.”
“Me too,” Cole said, his throat clenching as it began to sink in. Within a few steps, his ankle was already screaming at him despite the boot. While Jeremy dashed ahead to get the door, Cole paused, breathing in the wind as it rushed through the woods. There it was, the scent of Foothills. Cedar, sunset, and the neighbor’s barbecue.
The side of his mouth hooked in a curious smile. What in the hell had he gotten himself into? Since when had peace and quiet lured him in like a siren song?
As he walked inside, quiet was absolutely not what greeted him.
Celine Dion belting a high note, oven timer chiming, and from the chaos of the kitchen, Ellen squealed and leaped across the dining room toward him, her ballet flats tapping the tile as she shortened her steps so she didn’t knock him over. Laughing out loud, she threw her arms around him and said a million things at once.
His shoulder throbbed at the impact, but he didn’t fucking care and lifted her from the ground with his good arm. Her wildly curly, strawberry blond hair covered his face until he couldn’t see anything. Quickly masking his laugh, he didn’t comment that she still smelled of cookies.
“I’ve been fixing up your bedroom and getting everything ready. Jeremy texted ahead to let me know you didn’t bring anything with you, so I ran into town to get you some basics, but…” Ellen pulled back and held his cheeks in her hands, easing her thumb off the taped wound when she realized she’d pushed on it. Smiling, weepy and so damn sweet, she squeaked again and said, “I don’t know how it will fit. You’ve filled out and thinned out and you look exhausted.”
The last decade melted away, a tension behind his eyes that hadn’t relented in too long began to ease. He nodded, his face still trapped in her hands. “Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything. Can I grab a shower and change before dinner?”
“Of course. You know you don’t need to ask,” Ellen said, patting him on the cheeks again. “New clothes are in your dresser. Nothing fancy, as I didn’t know what you’d like, and I wanted to get home to get dinner started.”
Fuck. Searing hot wet stuff thickened behind his eyes, and he thought he might actually lose it this time. Not that he was afraid of blubbering, but he looked a wreck enough. “Thank you,” he said again.
Ellen wiped the pad of her thumb under his eye, and the blur over his vision worsened. “Go freshen up,” she murmured, smiling and oozing with sympathy.
He hobbled across the house, feeling two sets of eyes following. The place had been updated, and, knowing Ellen, rearranged more than a few times since he’d last been here. The ceilings were high, and the living room looked out over the back patio and the ravine that gave them a bigger chunk of land than most of the houses in the neighborhood. Plush white sofas had replaced the durable sink-into plaid from when he was younger, the area rug no longer dark red, but now a simple patterned beige.
He climbed the stairs, turning at the landing and all the way up to the peace of the isolated top floor. Every joint in his body screamed at him, but he was within grasp of a decent night’s sleep, and a week of spacing out. Maybe a month. Then dip into his savings, get his own place, and walk the mountains every damn day for the rest of his life.
The open area upstairs had been updated and was a far cry from the invincible setup that not even a bunch of teenagers could destroy. Now, there was a buttery leather wrap-around sofa and a natural wood and iron coffee table in front of a TV that rivaled a movie theater.
His bedroom was exactly as she’d said. Refreshed today with a bouquet of flowers on the dresser, a homemade quilt on the bed, and the window open, the breeze filling the room with the scent of sunbaked cedar.
He opened the top drawer and wasn’t the least bit surprised by the unopened packages of tighty whities. Thick, white crew socks. The next drawer had a stack of simple pocket t-shirts in a range of sizes and colors, and the next had two pair of jeans and two pair of joggers. A few sweatshirts. Simple, but exactly what he needed.
He grabbed a change of clothes and hobbled his way toward the bathroom. Afternoon sunlight flooded the room so he had to shield his eyes, but he wouldn’t close the blinds for anything.
When he stripped off the walking boot, the odor of sweaty foot knocked him back, and he dreaded putting the thing back on again. Better than a cast, he supposed, sprain rather than fracture.
Chest filled with a whimper that rose in his throat, Cole unraveled the shoulder immobilizer. Each movement triggered a renewed burst of pain.
Could have been worse. Could have been his neck that had dislocated in the escape. Luck had gotten him out of there more than skill.
He flicked on the shower and let the water rush over his skin, salt and sweat quickly dissolving. Travel was brutal, but nothing fought jetlag like a shower and a big glass of water. Normally, he’d say a run, or at least a vigorous walk, but he was a long way off from that.
Using the fragrant lavender bars that were set out in a row on the tiled alcove shelf, he sudsed his hair with the first bar, conditioned with the next, and scrubbed the last decade off his body with the third. Laughing under his breath, he realized his desperation was that bad. A therapist would probably be more effective than soap.
The scent of peanut butter cookies with chocolate chips wafted up the stairs and set his stomach rumbling in pursuit of imminent satisfaction. He toweled off quickly to get to the cookies before they cooled past that perfect moment of gooey goodness. Stiff, sore as hell and moving slower than an old man, he slid his new jeans off the counter, dreading the next few moments of the splintering pain of getting dressed.
As he bent forward, teetering on his good leg while he braced his bad shoulder at his side, the door swung open and clocked him in the head.
“Fuck,” he growled, dropping the jeans and grabbing at his head, concussion raging at the insult.
As quickly as he dared, he lifted his gaze to see his attacker.
“Sorry. Sorry. Shit. Sorry. Didn’t know you were… um. Hi.” Trace Perry. Cheeks flushed with a fiery blush, lips curled in a delighted laugh, she looked amused and humiliated.
“Trace,” he murmured as he rose to stand, keeping all his weight on the good leg, his toes splaying on the cool tile floor to keep him balanced.
Forcing air in and out, knowing the clock probably still ticked, the world probably still turned, he couldn’t have spoken a word or even thought a thought. Pretty as a sunset, Trace unfolded her arms from across her chest and smiled sweet as hell at him. Sight for sore eyes.
