Page 83 of Jack

“And now it makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Two days in the woods, hunting for your missing Cub Scout.”

“Yeah, well, that was different. I was in charge; he was a kid?—”

“And you found him. And became a town hero. I know. I was there.”

A great warmth had filled her tone. It reached in, and he didn’t have the power to stop it.

“Which is why Sabrina’s death did a real number on you.”

Oh.

“I spent a lot of time with your family. Waterskiing, fires by the lake. And growing up, you were larger than life. The leader of the pack. Then suddenly . . . you were gone. Out of their lives.”

He started to shake his head, but she held up a hand. “Why do you think the entire family fractured when you walked away four years ago?”

“It didn’t fracture?—”

“You haven’t had a full family Christmas since then. Everyone scattered.”

“You’re blaming me?—”

“No. I’m saying that they depend on you more than you think. You are, and will always be, the oldest brother. You can’t abdicate that, Jack.”

He had nothing.

She shut her computer and got up. “You’ve been all over the nation, searching for lost souls. But the one you should be hunting for is right here.” She put her hand on his chest.

The warmth soaked through him, burning as he stood up.

She met his eyes.

He met hers.

And she was right there, just inches from him. Full-grown woman, looking at him as if she . . . well,knewhim. Not in the hero-worship way of so many years ago, but with depth and understanding and . . .

The old spark had already flamed inside him, the one she’d lit so many years ago, and now it simply flashed over. He lifted his hand, touched her face.

She didn’t move, just drew in a breath, and her gaze fell to his mouth, back to his eyes, telling him yes.

So, of course, he kissed her. Because all other thought had abdicated and,aw, he was tired of trying to hold back the fire. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers, gently, searching?—

She stepped up, put both hands on his chest, and kissed him back. Not searching but responding, gas to his fire. Especially when she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his.

The action ignited everything inside him, all his senses, and he simply tried not to combust as he wrapped his arms around her, angling his head down, breathing in the smell of her, tasting coffee, nearly engulfed by the sense of how well she fit against him.

Like she had always belonged in his arms.

He emitted a groan deep inside his chest, aware, so very aware, that no one, ever, had had this terrible, wonderful, terrifying effect on him.

No, he’d never forgotten her.

“Pigtails?”

Oh—