Joanne Rock - Nights Under the Tennessee Stars

In fact, if he thought about it too long—knowing full well Sarah was staying with extremely responsible friends of the family—he stood a very real chance of a panic attack while sitting on the side of the road.

She was safe. She was safe. She was safe...

The mantra didn’t work as fast as Remy needed it to, memories of his wife’s death—while home alone—returning too fast for him to block them out. Two years wasn’t too long to grieve. Not when Liv’s death had been Remy’s fault. He hadn’t been home when two drifters had shown up, targeting their home for easy-to-pawn goods and cash. They’d known about the house thanks to a shared jail cell with Sarah’s biological father, Brandon, who was doing time at a medium-security facility for some kind of hacking crime. The guy had bragged that his ex-girlfriend had struck it rich when she had married, spilling details about the new house Remy had built in Lafayette, Louisiana.

The weight on his chest increased, the air in his lungs leaving in a rush of breath and fear.

Feeling along the passenger seat in the darkened car interior, he found his cell phone and punched in the speed dial code for his daughter. He’d be all right once he heard her voice. God, let her be okay...

Dialing. The device showed it was dialing. And dialing.

Then the call screen disappeared and returned to his home page. Remy punched in her number again. Only to repeat the process.

How far away from civilization was he that he couldn’t grab a cell signal? The delay did zero for the onslaught of panic. He snatched up his phone and keys and shoved open the car door, heading out into the rain. A stupid idea. Except he needed to get in touch with Sarah. Now.

Torrents of water streamed from the sky, soaking him instantly. The street was a rushing river, filling his shoes and plastering the hem of his pants legs to his ankles.

He was a dumbass. This fear was irrational. And so real he didn’t give a shit. Maybe he’d get a better signal if he got out of the rain.

Crossing the street, he could make out the shape of buildings—red brick and clapboard side by side. A few awnings shielded him from some of the rain, but not enough that he trusted using his phone without ruining it. He cursed the rain, his luck and the growing fear in his chest. He picked up his pace and sloshed along the cobblestones, hoping to see a pay phone. Talk about an antique... What were the chances he’d find one?

Thwack! Thwack!

A series of sharp sounds cut through the rumble of the deluge. Thwack! Thwack!

He tracked the noise to his left and saw a dull glow from a glass storefront with a bicycle in the front window. Last Chance Vintage was painted in purple-and-red-striped letters. Relieved to finally find the place after hours of looking, he tried to remember what he’d read about it. His notes had said the business was owned by sisters, but he didn’t recall much more than that. Probably two old maids with blue hair and double-stranded pearls.

Thwack! Thwack!

The sound definitely came from inside, and judging by the light emanating behind an opaque sheet of plastic near the register, he guessed a construction crew was doing some work after hours. He lifted his fist to bang on the door with one hand while he pushed the brass doorbell with the other. Whoever was making that racket inside might not hear otherwise—

Shadows moved behind the plastic sheet, but Remy’s eye was already on the corded phone on the counter right near a cash register circa 1920. When the sheet moved, a woman emerged in overalls and safety goggles, carrying a bright orange nail gun. No doubt that accounted for the noise.

Remy lifted a hand in a sorry excuse for a wave. He hoped he didn’t scare her away. He probably looked like an intruder. His throat closed up tight as the young woman pulled off the safety goggles and strode toward the door. He half wished she wouldn’t let him in—what the hell was she thinking opening the door to a total stranger after hours?—but he needed to call Sarah. Some days were worse than others since Liv’s death and this was turning out to be one of the worst ones.

It was difficult traveling away from home.

The door opened and the woman stood back to admit him. The scent of wood shavings and stain was heavy in the warm interior air.

“Can I help you?” She fixed him with knockout blue eyes, the soft color a surprise feminine detail next to the baggy jean overalls and shapeless dark tee underneath. Her jet-black hair was purposefully shaded and cut in a razor-sharp line just above her shoulders.

Definitely not an old maid.

“I can’t get a cell signal out here.” Remy didn’t cross the threshold despite the open door.

His wife had been murdered during a home robbery while he was away from home for work. Seeing this total stranger, this vulnerable stranger, open the door to him was messing with his head.

“Come in!” The woman waved him forward impatiently. “You’re getting rain all over the floor.”

“I can give you the number,” he offered, his feet feeling as if they were stuck in concrete. “You could make the call for me, if you’d feel more comfortable having me wait outside—”

“I am most comfortable not having the hardwood ruined.” She stepped forward to grab the door and gestured emphatically for him to come inside.

He forced his feet to move, grateful to get out of the rain.

She shoved the door closed and toed the welcome mat closer to him. “Here. I’ll get you a towel and you can use the phone.” She rummaged in a basket beneath one of the display shelves and retrieved a couple of rumpled terry cloth rags. “I’m Erin Finley, by the way. One of the owners. You must be from out of town?”

“Remy Weldon, from Miami.” He mopped off his face and hands, knowing the rest of him was a lost cause. “Sorry to bother you—”

“It’s no bother.” She was already grabbing the phone and yanking free some extra cord so she could bring it to him while he stood on the mat. “I’m glad I could help. It’s a small-town thing, you know? Be nice to strangers and all that.”

She shrugged a shoulder as if it was no big deal, and something about the gesture hinted at the feminine curves beneath the overalls, catching him off guard. He hadn’t noticed women in anything but the most detached way in a long time.

Dropping the heavy, old-fashioned phone into his hands, Erin gave him a fleeting smile.

Remy swallowed hard, his thoughts all over the place. The anxiety in the car had spiraled into worries about a total stranger opening the door to him, and now this surprise awareness of her. He gripped the phone tighter.

“I didn’t mean to stand outside and let the rain in for so long,” he said finally, his brain clearly short-circuiting. “I—ah—didn’t think...”

And then no words freaking came. Remy Weldon, who’d built a career on his ability to get funding for any show and sweet-talk talent into any role, gaped like a fish out of water.

Not that Erin seemed to notice. She was too busy running a hand over the wooden molding on the front of the checkout counter. Pressing a thumb over one raised spot, she lifted her nail gun to the wood and— thwack!— put the trim back into place.

She looked at him. “I figure it’s safe enough to let a stranger inside when I’m the one carrying the air nail framer with enough compression power to staple your hands to the wall.” Her mouth stretched into a smile that he bet some guys would find intimidating. “That is, if I needed to.”

“Awesome. Good thinking.” He liked Erin immediately. Not only because she thought about a weapon to bring to the door, but also because she didn’t seem to notice the fits and starts of his speech that had plagued him the past two years. Bad enough to be caught thinking about his wife in the middle of a meeting and have everyone’s expression turn embarrassed, impatient or—worse—pitying. But then, to stumble over his own words or realize he’d lost his place in the conversation completely? He hated that.