Sweetest Mistake Read online

  Dedication

  For John and Patty—

  best and most fun brother-in-law and sister-in-law ever.

  I love you both dearly. It’s not a competition.

  Acknowledgments

  A very big thank you to M.L., a certain California fire captain who likes to fly under the radar and didn’t want to be acknowledged (you know who you are). I had to thank you anyway for all the wonderful feedback and the time it took for you to answer all my crazy questions.

  Special thanks to my good friend Tommy Collins—the hardest-working deejay on the Boise airwaves—for all the laughs and musical inspiration.

  Heartfelt thanks go out to my readers who always come through for me to offer support and encouragement when I sometimes think I’m all alone. I appreciate you so very much. Special thanks to Valerie Lane for responding to my Facebook plea and coming up with a name for Miss Kitty.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Announcement page to Something Sweeter

  About the Author

  By Candis Terry

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  In the split second before hell exploded, Jackson Wilder picked up his weapon and pounded the bastard back. His hands were steady. His mind focused. Sweat rolled down his back from the heat and the adrenaline.

  The memories.

  He shoved away any weakness that taunted him from the edge and dared him to fail.

  He would not.

  Could not.

  Ever again.

  In his book, fighting a fire that threatened to destroy lives was no different than combating the enemy on the parched soils of Afghanistan.

  Same battle.

  Different villain.

  The only variation? This war he had a better chance of winning.

  He ignored the ache in his bones from the busy shift he’d just completed with the San Antonio Fire Department and gathered all the oomph he had left to fight this structure fire for the Sweet, Texas, volunteer station.

  He’d do anything to protect his hometown. Hell, he’d even gone to war.

  Still was if anyone paid attention.

  Except he wasn’t really the heart-on-your-sleeve kind of guy, so most folks couldn’t see what went on inside his head or heart.

  Those battles he fought alone.

  On the battlefield, it didn’t matter if the weapon was a hose or a military assault rifle—it felt good in his hands. Felt right. It gave him a reason. A purpose. An opportunity to help others and sink his thoughts into something other than his own colossal fuck-ups.

  And he’d made plenty.

  As fire licked up the side of the house, he moved forward—daring it to jump to the roof. Like a living, breathing entity, it paused, seemed to look at him, and accept the dare. When it made its move, he shook his head.

  He who blinks first gets their ass annihilated.

  One slight shift of the hose shot bullets of water that split the flame. Weakened its power. Forced it into submission.

  Today, he could claim victory.

  Tomorrow? Who the hell knew.

  Minutes later, he finished helping with overhaul, then climbed back up into the engine. Head dropped back and eyes closed, he endured some good-natured ribbing on the way back to the station from the group of volunteers made up of ranchers, lawyers, and shop owners. The camaraderie he shared with them was different than the one with the guys from the big-city station. But no less important. He’d grown up with some. Learned from others. Respected the hell out of all of them.

  Back at the station, he’d barely kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his turnouts before fatigue sank deep. Too tired to stop and shower, he tossed a wave to the crew, and, behind him, the steel door slammed shut.

  Anxious for a quick combat nap before he picked up his baby girl for their Wednesday-night visit, he shoved his sunglasses on and headed toward the big silver truck parked in the back lot. Once inside the cab, he stretched, yawned, and stuck the keys in the ignition. The engine turned over with a low growl, and he eased out toward the road.

  In his thirty-one years, traffic in beautiful downtown Sweet had never been more than a trickle or two of farm vehicles or mom taxis on their way to pick up the kids at school or shuffle those same kids off to soccer practice or a 4-H meeting. But lately, since a few businesses had been revamped by the TV show My New Town, tourism had picked up. The traffic flow as well. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do.

  The county sheriff’s SUV cruised by, with its black deer guard gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Jackson lifted his hand with the locals’ two-fingered version of a wave. Instead of continuing down Main Street, the patrol car swerved into the fire station driveway and stopped. The window rolled down with a squeal.

  “Been looking for you, Wilder.”

  “Aw, hell. What’d I do now?”

  Deputy Brady Bennett—childhood friend and local chick magnet—chuckled. “I’m sure there’s something. Lucky for you I don’t need to haul out the handcuffs this time.”

  “Ever,” Jackson reminded him.

  “Only because you never got caught.” Brady grinned, knowing he’d been in on some of those wild-ass and death-defying capers too. “And might I add that you aren’t dead yet.”

  Jackson rolled his tense neck muscles. “Feel like it.”

  “Busy shift?”

  “Four structures in the big city. Just mopped up one here too.”

  “Eckels’s place.” Brady pushed back his Stetson. “Heard that over the radio.”

  “Yeah. The missus set a hot pot of fryer oil next to the gas grill to let it cool off. The mister popped on the grill to cook some Brats for lunch.”

  “Poof.”

  “Yep.” Jackson flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Caught it before it hit the roof.”

  “Lucky for them.”

  Jackson nodded. “So what’s up?”

  Brady squinted against the sun. “She’s back.”

  “She who?” Jackson nearly shook his head at the pointless inquiry. He knew who by the immediate tingle up his spine. The instant rush through his heart.

  “Ms. Abigail Morgan.” Brady glanced down at the computer between the seats, then back up again. “Or I guess she’s Mrs. Rich now.”

  In more ways than one. “When?”

  “Rolled in yesterday around noon. She’s over at her folks’ place.”

  “They come back too?”

  Brady shook his head. “Saw one of those personal storage containers and a foreign car in the driveway, so I stopped in to check on things. Renters moved out. Abby said she’s there to fix up the house and put it on the market.”

  A tangle of emotion coiled in Jackson’s soul. It took everything he had to stay cool. Keep his tone even. Neutral. “How’d she look?” Sheesh. That hardly sounded superficial.

  “Smokin’.”

  Hell, he knew that too. Abby had always been beautiful. Ethereal. Like a woodland fairy. Even when she’d been missing her two front teeth or had the chicken pox all over her face.

  “I meant did she look . . . okay?”

  Brady gave an almost
imperceptible shrug of his uniformed shoulders. “Seemed fine.” Then he glanced down the road, narrowed his eyes as an F–350 zoomed past. “Well . . . got to go catch me a speeder. Just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  While Brady put the patrol car in reverse, Jackson sat there staring out the windshield. His head buzzed. Heart tingled. He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel one by one, then replaced them in the same systematic manner. The breath that lifted his chest stuttered.

  She was back.

  With a calm defying the current scramble in his brain, he eased the truck out onto Main Street and turned toward home.

  Every place he passed on the way reminded him of her. Brought back memories of good times. Town Square—where they’d sat on the lawn with friends and listened to concerts beneath a hot summer sky. The high school where they’d laughingly raced through the halls, late again for class. The Yellow Rose Cinema, where they’d often double-dated and fought over the last kernel of a shared tub of popcorn. The used bookstore, which had once been a pet shop where Abby had worked for several months before recognizing animal cruelty and quit. She then proceeded to break in and rescue several cats, dogs, and even a chameleon she’d named Rainbow Brite.

  He laughed at the memory because he’d been an accessory to the cause. An accessory who’d thanked god that Sheriff Mackey excused their indiscretion when he’d been witness to Abby’s grievance. The shop owner had been prosecuted, and Abby had personally found homes for all the animals.

  Jackson’s fingers curled over the steering wheel. Squeezed until the muscles in his forearms popped.

  Abby had been his confidante.

  His partner in crime.

  She’d been his first kiss.

  The first girl he’d made love to.

  His best friend—until the day almost seven years ago, when she betrayed him. Completely cut him out of her life.

  No explanation.

  No apology.

  No good-bye.

  Stopped at the intersection of Main and Stone Creek Road, he waited for Gladys Lewis and Arlene Potter—two of Sweet’s reigning gossip queens—to clear the crosswalk. A long, hard breath pushed from his lungs. He was exhausted and clearly not giving a whole lot of caution to his thoughts.

  So what if Abby had hit the delete key next to his name in her book of life? No big deal that as his best friend she hadn’t been there for him after he’d witnessed his big brother being killed in Afghanistan. No big deal that as his best friend she hadn’t been there when his father had died from the heartbreak over the loss of his firstborn son.

  No big deal.

  He should be over it.

  In his mind, he pictured her the last time he’d seen her.

  Over it?

  Yeah. Not so much.

  When the crosswalk cleared, he put his hands on the wheel and flipped an illegal Uey.

  She was back.

  And he figured there wasn’t a better time than now to fill in the missing pieces.

  The Morgans’ modest, rock-faced, two-story house sat in the heart of Bluebonnet Lane, surrounded by other bungalows and family-style residences. Since Abby’s childhood home had been rented out for several years it looked a little bedraggled. Other than that, there was nothing particularly unique about it.

  Except for the huge storage container and the shiny silver Mercedes SL parked in the driveway.

  With a pull of air into his lungs, he got out of the truck and moved up the concrete path that split the front yard. His heart worked overtime as he knocked on the door, slid his hands into his pockets, and stepped back to wait.

  The last time he’d seen Abby, she’d stood with the rest of his family as he’d cupped her face in his hands and given her a quick good-bye kiss. At the time, he’d never imagined just how final the good-bye would be.

  His mental wanderings snapped back as the front door creaked open and . . . Holy shit.

  Everything about her had changed. Her customary cloud of ivory curls were stick straight and streaked with caramel. Her blue eyes were shaded with dramatic hues of pink, brown, and a slash of black eyeliner. A dark blue clingy top draped at her neckline, then clung like a second skin the rest of the way down. Hot pink skinny jeans hugged her long legs. And a sexy pair of open-toed skyscraper high heels flaunted her purple nail polish.

  She’d been made up to look like she’d just posed for a magazine cover. And like some of those cover girls, she looked like she hadn’t eaten a slice of her favorite pepperoni-and-pineapple pizza in a long time.

  Where did her luscious curves go?

  As usual, his big mouth opened before the words connected to his brain. Luckily, they only hit on one of the wild-ass thoughts flying through his head.

  “What the hell happened to your hair?”

  For a long, breathless moment, Jackson stood on her doorstep. Five o’clock shadow dusting that squared jaw. Fists clenched.

  Abby took that split second to drink him in.

  As usual, his dark blond hair appeared carelessly hand-combed—reflecting a hint of the man she knew to be an act-first-think-later kind of guy. The outer corners of his eyes were slightly turned down and made him appear like he was in a perpetual state of concern. But the vivid blue made him look keenly intrigued, full of mischief, and wildly untamed.

  The impressive breadth of his shoulders and chest were rigid beneath a deep blue SAFD shirt. The defined muscles of his biceps expanded from beneath the short sleeves, and dark blue pants hugged his slim hips and long, powerful legs. The man oozed sexuality as if at birth he’d been granted an extra ration of snap and sizzle.

  Abby’s heart gave a fierce thump against her ribs.

  He’d changed.

  He looked better. Older. Wiser.

  And probably a little north of ticked off.

  At his comment, she resisted the urge to lift a hand to make sure her hair was in place. During the extent of her marriage, she’d been expected to appear flawless at all times. To be the consummate hostess. Dedicated personal assistant. And loving wife. At least in the eyes of the world—or Houston society—whichever came first on any given day.

  Her birth date might claim her age to be only thirty-one, but she felt ancient.

  Tired.

  Far from perfect.

  Her heart leaped again as she looked up into the eyes of the man who’d never expected perfection. He’d seen her at her best and her worst, and he’d never looked at her any differently.

  Until now.

  Now, those dark blue eyes were narrowed.

  Judgmental.

  Curious.

  She’d never met a man as outspoken as Jackson Wilder. He called it like he saw it. Spewed advice no one invited.

  Guess some things hadn’t changed at all.

  “So . . .” His entire expression shifted. “It’s been a while,” he finally said, unable to hide the undertones of a low Southern growl.

  She lifted the corners of her mouth into a practiced smile. “We’re not going to argue in the first five seconds, are we?”

  “Argue?” His gaze locked onto hers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Friends don’t argue. And that’s what we were the last time I checked . . . oh, say almost seven years ago. Except . . . wait . . .” He folded those massive arms, shifted the weight of that big strong body from one boot to the other. “Friends don’t run off without a word, then never write or call, do they?”

  “Oh goody. We are going to argue.” She tried her best to sound blasé—though a blood-pressure check would have proven otherwise. She stepped back from the doorway. “Then I guess you might as well come in so the neighbors don’t start erecting fallout shelters.”

  Without another word, he strode into the house filled with haphazardly placed furniture and stacks of boxes she’d had the movers bring back into the house from the storage container parked outside. Prep, stage, and sell, had been the request from her mom and dad. Oh, and while she was at it,
would she mind going through everything and having a garage sale too? And then, of course, send them the money even though she’d been the one to pay for the movers and she’d be the one to cover any renovation costs to sell their house. Heaven forbid they take a break from playing Texas Holdem or yucking it up during martini happy hour with their fellow retirees.

  Irritation crept up the back of her neck as she turned to look at the man in the middle of her living room—muscular arms folded across an amazing chest while he studied the current wall-to-wall catastrophe.

  “Have a seat,” she told him as she shut the door. “If you can find one.”

  “No thanks. I don’t plan on staying long.”

  “Suit yourself.” She wadded up the sheet covering the sofa and tossed it on top of a stack of boxes marked Records. “Hey, how about if you just stand there and glare at me while I make some tea. Or maybe you’d like a beer. The previous renters might have left one behind in their haste to vacate while skipping on the last month’s rent.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Great.” She pushed a breath from her lungs. “You do that.”

  “You sound a little testy.” The orneriness in his deep voice rippled up her spine.

  “Testy? Whatever gave you that idea?” Her blood rushed through her veins, and, for the first time in a long time, she felt alive. She’d been on the run for so long, it was finally time to stop. Deal with the consequences. After all, she’d come back to Sweet to face her demons, hadn’t she?

  Might as well start with the devil himself.

  “The way you’re grinding your teeth,” he said.

  “My teeth were fine and dandy before you showed up at my door with your fists and jaw clenched and your Grrr face in full force. So why did you come here, Jackson? To argue? To throw a wad of guilt at me?”

  He said nothing.

  “Or . . .” Her hands slammed down onto her hips. “Were you looking for an apology?”

  Denial darkened his eyes.

  She’d always known him better than she’d ever known herself. Which made her realize he hadn’t come for a pathetic admission of guilt.

  He’d come for answers.