Lena Diaz - Conflicting Evidence

“I thought you had a chalet on Skyline Drive?”

He shot her a surprised glance. “I used to. How did you know about the chalet? I bought it a year after you left.” He cut the engine.

She shrugged, unwilling to admit that she’d ruthlessly grilled an old friend for information about Colin after being forced to move to Memphis. “One of dad’s clients or mom’s old church friends probably mentioned it on the phone after we first left. But I never knew you built a new home a few miles up the road from mine. Why did you? Why here?”

He hesitated. “The land was available, the area familiar. No neighbors to worry about.”

“And you just happened to build a white two-story farmhouse surrounded by acres of white fencing? With a porch swing? Like we talked about building together one day?”

His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I’ve always liked this style of home. Don’t read anything into it.”

She jerked back, and hated that she had. He’d hurt her, again, and she seemed helpless to hide it every time one of his barbs hit the bullseye.

His expression softened with regret. “Peyton—”

“I’ll get the door myself this time.” She grabbed her purse and overnight bag and hopped out of the truck before he could get out and help her. She stumbled but considered it a victory that she didn’t do a face-plant on the pristine gray-painted floor of the garage. In comparison, her garage had cracks and oil stains all over the place from her constantly leaking SUV. She’d be afraid to park her car in something this clean.

Both of them were silent as he led the way into the house.

Similar to her home, the garage led into a laundry/mudroom. But that was where the similarities ended. They walked down a wide back hall with several doors, all closed. A cased opening led them toward the front of the house, around a concrete-and-metal staircase into a massive vaulted family room. They finally stopped in the kitchen in the back-left corner of the house.

Her mouth dropped open. She nearly drooled. What she’d considered to be a high-end redesign of her own kitchen seemed like a joke compared to Colin’s. It was completely open to the main room with a massive island the only separation. Four saddle-style bar stools covered in black leather with matching black iron legs were snugged up beneath the overhang of the island on the side facing the family room. There wasn’t a table and chairs anywhere that she saw. And she hadn’t seen a dining room on their quick trip through the house. She wondered if he ate all his meals at the island or off trays in front of the television like she tended to do.

The ceilings soared up two stories high with skylights that allowed a breathtaking view of the stars. During the day, it would be awash with sunlight. Just like they’d imagined when they’d talked about their future together and the house where they one day hoped to live.

He opened a door and flipped on the light switch. “I wanted to show you the pantry since you were worried about baking supplies. My mom insists on keeping it stocked for when she comes over for family gatherings. She enjoys baking too, like you and your mom. I imagine most of what you need is in here.”

She ducked inside the enormous walk-in that was larger than her bedroom back home. Flour, sugar, spices of every kind lined one side, a much better variety than she had in her own pantry. It was a baker’s dream. Even if her business started booming, she could never afford something like this. She stepped back, feeling like the poor relation. Which was odd, considering that the McKenzie wealth had never bothered her in the past. Now it seemed like a looming barrier between them.

“Nice. Really nice. I’ll be sure to reimburse you for any ingredients I use.”

“That’s not necessa—”

“I’ll pay you back or I can’t do my baking here. And I really need to have product ready Sunday morning.”

His jaw tightened but he didn’t argue. “Are you hungry? And don’t tell me you won’t eat my groceries. You’re my guest. I insist.”

Guest. What a sad, lonely word. At eighteen, she and Colin had been ready to take on the world together. She’d expected that by twenty-eight she’d be working alongside him, fighting for justice. Coming home every night to a couple of kids, preferably boys with their father’s deep blue eyes and blue-black hair. Every night, she’d fall into his arms in the king-size bed and make love until dawn.

“Thanks.” Her voice came out barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I couldn’t eat anything right now. Actually, I’m kind of exhausted. It’s been a rough day all around.”

He studied her a moment, as if he wanted to say something. But then he turned and led her back into the family room. He didn’t stop until they reached the stairs on the far right side. “The guest bedrooms are upstairs. Pick whichever one you like.”

She admired the industrial black metal handrail, smoothed her fingers over the iron cables. Modern farmhouse. A little more masculine and contemporary than she’d have wanted. But gorgeous, just the same. Seeing their dream brought to life—without her—somehow hurt worse than if their dream had never been realized.

“It’s beautiful, Colin. Your home is...perfect.” She smiled wistfully. “I don’t suppose you have a horse barn out back with a palomino mare?”

He shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes. Was he remembering all the times they’d ridden trail ponies through the foothills? Or taken turns on the palomino her father got her for her sixteenth birthday? The same horse she’d had to sell when Brian was arrested and they scraped for every penny to pay for his defense.

“I’ve got a workshop out back, that’s it. You were the one crazy about horses when we were young. Not me.”

Her hand tightened on the railing. “I see.” She took a deep breath, then another, struggling against the urge to cry. She’d rather die than let loose with another onslaught of tears in front of him when he was being so cold.

“Make yourself at home.” His voice sounded strained. “I’m going to bed.” He opened a door to the right of the stairs, a few feet from the main entrance to the house.

He needn’t have bothered shutting the door behind him. He’d already shut her out just fine without one.

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