“A friend?” I ask.
“Of my brother, yeah. Joe is a good guy. He hooked us up.”
Rand falls quiet again, and it’s not much longer before we roll into another town, this one bigger than the last. I’ve heard of Granbury, but I’ve never been.
All the old buildings around the square have been converted into quaint little shops and restaurants. In the middle stands the county courthouse. It’s French style, made of white bricks, with a clocktower, circa 1890.
The town is charming. I’m immediately enthralled. “Wow.”
“You like this place? I didn’t think it would be your speed.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I pegged you for more of a Paris-London-Milan type.”
“It was cool…the first few times. Now I just prefer home.” Well, I did. I don’t really have one now. I own a house in LA, but it’s never really felt like home to me.
He nods like he’s mildly surprised by my answer. “Do you have any family who’s going to panic if you don’t surface for a few days?”
I used to, but… “No.”
Rand stops at another light and whips his stare my way. “No one?”
“My parents divorced about a year after my first top-ten single. My mom remarried and had more kids. My dad…” I shrug. “I haven’t heard from him in about five years.”
Something crosses his face. It’s not exactly pity. Compassion? Definitely. Still, I see more. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I’m over it.”
His glance says he doesn’t believe me. It feels as if this man can see through me when no one else can. I hate it. It’s unnerving. Yet it’s weirdly comforting to be even slightly understood.
“How often do you talk to your mom?” he asks.
“Once a month or so.” For the past couple of years, the “or so” has been the norm. I think I last spoke to her in February.
He shakes his head and accelerates through the now-green light. Traffic is congested in the town square. They’re kicking off their local Fourth of July festival. Through the windows, I can’t miss the savory scent of barbeque. Maybe I spoke too soon when I said I wasn’t hungry, but it’s not as if I can hop out of Rand’s truck wearing barely more than his shirt in a crowd full of people who will likely recognize me.
“Sorry.” He takes my hand.
I’m shocked, but I don’t try to pull free. “Why?”
“I’ve got a big-ass family. If I don’t check in soon, they’ll all start looking for me.”
“You said you have brothers?”
“Three of them. Ransom is the oldest. I’m second. Then Rush, followed by Ridge. We’re tight.”
I’m envious. My half siblings are all more than ten years younger than me. One of them, I’ve never even met. “That must be nice.”
“Mostly. Inconvenient at times, but I wouldn’t do life without them.”
Suddenly, Rand is even more mysterious. How old is he? Where did he grow up? What else is important to him? Who else?
Oh, shit. Is he married?
I release his hand. He plants it on the steering wheel and makes a left, heading into a residential neighborhood full of houses painted in soft colors with mature trees and well-manicured lawns.
He pulls up in front of a yellow cottage with a wraparound porch and a pair of rocking chairs. In the gravel driveway, he puts the truck in park and hops out, shoves aside some bushes, then punches in a code to unlock a wide iron gate. Moments later, he’s pulling through the opening and parking under a carport adjacent to the backyard. The big lake shimmers beyond the chain-link fence straight ahead.
“We’re here.” He hops out. “Hang tight.”
I do, watching as he jogs to the gate and closes it again, giving it a tug to ensure it’s locked. I can’t not notice how tall and broad he is. How strong the steely bulges of his shoulders and arms are. How utterly gorgeous he is when the Texas sun bounces off the slight waves of his blue-black hair. Then he turns and heads for me before offering me a hand out of the truck. As he leads me to the back door, flanked by a flagstone patio and a garden with colorful summery flowers, I try not to stare.
He stops beside the barbeque, opens the door around back, lifts the propane tank, then produces a key. “We’re in.”
Thank goodness. Now that we’ve reached relative safety, all I want is a shower, clean clothes, and I’m sad to say, a good cry.
But I buck up. “You lead. I’ll follow.”
His stare lingers on me for a disarmingly long moment before he inserts the key and turns the knob. Inside, the place is homey with what looks like original wide-plank pine floors. A comfortable brown sofa takes up the far corner of the room. There are a few other mismatched chairs, all facing a massive TV on the nearest wall. A ceiling fan spins lazily above us, and the midday sun pours in through a bay window.