On A Night Like This (The Callaways) (3 page)

Not that she cared, she reminded herself. There had been plenty of men in her life since high school, since Aiden. She was no longer his adoring fan.

She searched for something to say, something smart, witty, casual, but nothing seemed right. There had been a time in her life when she'd lived to catch a glimpse of Aiden, and another time when she'd hoped never to see him again, but now here he was, here they were, and she couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

She tucked her hair behind her ear. "So…"

"So," he echoed. "It's been a long time."

"Yes," she agreed, feeling irritated with her awkwardness.

"How did you set the kitchen on fire?"

"I wasn't the one who was cooking," she said.

Aiden gave her a doubtful look. "You're saying your father did that? Your father who lives by a rulebook and never ever takes a misstep? The man who can do no wrong and cannot tolerate failure in others?"

"Yes, apparently, he is human," she replied, not surprised that Aiden's assessment of her dad was so spot on. He'd grown up next door, and her father had yelled at the Callaway boys on more than a few occasions.

"Are you living here now?" Aiden asked.

"No, just visiting. What about you?"

A shadow crossed his eyes. "I'm not sure of my plans."

Before she could press for more information, one of the firefighters joined them. "Callaway? What are you doing here?"

"Helping out," Aiden said shortly.

Something sparked between the two men, something intense and angry. Sara felt like she'd just landed back in the middle of another fire. Aiden had always had a million friends and he'd been a guy's guy. To see someone who obviously hated his guts was surprising.

"Quite the hero. You always land on your feet, don't you?" the other man sneered.

"If you say so," Aiden said evenly.

Fury burned in the other man's eyes a split second before he pulled back his arm and punched Aiden in the face.

Aiden stumbled backward, his hand flying to his right eye.

Sara gasped in surprise, startled by the unexpected attack. "What's happening?" she asked, but no one was listening to her.

"That was for Kyle," the man said. "And this –"

Before he could finish his statement, one of the other firefighters intervened, grabbing his pal's arm. "That's enough, Hawkins. Get in the truck."

Hawkins looked like he wanted to argue, but after giving Aiden another scathing look, he reluctantly followed orders.

"What just happened?" Sara asked.

Neither man seemed inclined to answer her. After exchanging a long look with Aiden, the firefighter gave her his attention. "The inspector just arrived. He'll let you know the damage and when you can go inside."

"Thanks," she said.

The firefighter gave Aiden a hard look and then headed to the truck.

"Okay, what was that all about?" she asked Aiden.

He rubbed his rapidly swelling cheekbone. "Nothing."

"That man didn't hit you for nothing, Aiden. He said it was for Kyle. Was he talking about Kyle Dunne?"

"Leave it alone, Sara."

"What happened to Kyle?"

Aiden's jaw tightened. "He died, and it's my fault."

His blunt words shook her to the core. Kyle Dunne was the same age as Aiden. They'd been friends since kindergarten. Now he was dead? Why? How?

It was clear Aiden had no interest in giving her more details; he was already moving down the sidewalk.

"Aiden, wait," she called, but he didn't turn his head.

As he walked toward his truck, she noticed a limp in his stride. He'd suffered an injury of some sort. At the same time that Kyle had died?

Why would anyone blame Aiden for his best friend's death? There was no way Aiden would have let Kyle die without trying to save him. Aiden was a born protector. She'd just witnessed him in action when he'd rescued her father, a man he didn't even like. Aiden would have put his own life on the line for Kyle.

Memories of Aiden and Kyle together flashed through her mind. She could see them playing catch in the street until well after dark, hosting poker games in the room over the garage for all their high school friends, getting dressed up in suits for their senior prom. Kyle was dead? He'd always been so much fun, a joker and a prankster. Kyle and Aiden had caused a lot of trouble together, and they'd been closer than brothers. Aiden had to be reeling. No wonder there had been so much worry in Lynda's eyes when she'd mentioned Aiden.

As Aiden pulled his bags out of his truck, she was torn between wanting to ask him more questions and wanting to put some distance between them.

He was the one guy she'd never been able to forget, the one guy who still haunted her dreams. The last thing she needed to do was talk to him. She had enough problems to deal with. She turned her back on Aiden and headed across the lawn to talk to the fire inspector.

Chapter Three

Aiden was relieved to get to his truck, to get away from Sara's compelling gaze. When he'd decided to return to San Francisco, he hadn't counted on seeing her again. She was a complication he didn't need.

But damn, she was pretty. His gut tightened as he sneaked another look at her, watching her move across the lawn. She'd always been cute in a girl-next-door kind of way, but she'd grown up to be a beautiful woman. He liked the way her sun-streaked light brown hair sparked with gold, the curve of her hips in her form fitting slacks, and the soft swells of her breasts that had filled out in the decade since he'd last seen her.

She still dressed like a librarian, but he knew there was passion inside of her. He'd seen it first-hand. He just hadn't handled it very well back then. In those days, he hadn't handled a lot of things well in his life. Hell, not in these days either, he thought with a frown.

Forcing himself to look away from Sara, he headed up the driveway. He'd debated coming home for three long weeks. It could be either a great or a terrible decision. So far, it wasn't looking good.

The last thing he'd expected to run into was a fire. For a split second, he'd hesitated, the events of three weeks ago still fresh in his mind, but instinct had driven him forward. And this time no one had died.

Thinking about Kyle, he put a hand to his aching cheekbone. He should have seen that punch coming. It wasn't the first fist to the face he'd taken since Kyle had died, and he doubted it would be the last. But the physical pain he could handle. It was the one deep inside that seemed overwhelming and relentless. He'd tried to outrun it, to drown it in booze, but it was still with him, and he wondered if it would ever leave.

Opening the side door, he stepped into the house and set his bag down inside the door. He grabbed a kitchen towel, swiped some ice out of the freezer and then applied it to his face.

Lynda entered the kitchen a moment later, her brows pinching together as she took in the ice and the bruise on his face.

"I didn't realize you'd injured yourself," she said.

"It's fine," he said, not choosing to explain.

He sat down at the same large, rectangular table where he'd once done his schoolwork and let the feeling of being home run through him. The large country-style kitchen had oak cabinets and hardwood floors. His mother had had the kitchen redone when he was in high school, adding tons of cupboard space to accommodate the amount of food eight children could consume in any given day. There was also plenty of open counter space including a center island that had often served as ground central for his sisters' baking adventures. He'd usually tried to stay out of those, at least until the batter could be tasted. He smiled at the memories.

This house had always been a safe harbor, but he wasn't sure it would be now. Lynda might be cheerful and welcoming, but he suspected his father and older brother, Burke, would have a different attitude. He'd already received several phone and text messages from both of them and they'd gone from initially being worried about his health to being extremely pissed off that he wasn't trying to counter some of the negative reports that were out there.

"Are you hungry, thirsty?" Lynda asked, worry in her eyes. "What do you need?"

What did he need?
He couldn't begin to tell her.

"Just sit down," he said. "I don't need anything."

"Don't you?" she challenged as she took the chair across from him. "You're hurt, Aiden, and I'm not talking about that bruise on your face, although that looks more like the handiwork of someone's fist than a fire."

Lynda had always been perceptive, sometimes more than he'd appreciated. She'd been his stepmother since he was eight years old. It had taken him a while to connect with her; he'd been really close with his biological mom. But Lynda was the one who had been there for him when he needed a mother.

"Who hit you?" she asked. "And don't waste my time denying what happened."

"Ray Hawkins."

Her lips tightened. "Kyle's friend."

"Yeah. His cousin, Dave, was on my crew when Kyle died. He hadn't been jumping with us very long. He'd just transferred from Missoula. He wasn't a big fan of mine, either."

"Can you tell me what happened to Kyle?"

Her words brought with them a flash of memory, the roaring forest fire, the whipping winds, and the fear on the faces of his fellow smoke jumpers. Fire season was supposed to be over. It was the beginning of October. They'd been packing away their gear, preparing to move on to their off-season jobs. But a hundred unexpected lightning strikes in the Shasta-Trinity forest had changed their plans.

"Aiden?" Lynda's persistent voice brought him back to the present. "What happened to Kyle?"

"He died." The words felt as unreal now as they had three weeks earlier.

"How?"

"Does it matter?" He set down the ice pack. "It was my fault."

"I don't believe that."

"Everyone else does. I'm sure Dad or Burke or someone has already told you that I'm responsible."

"I want to hear what you have to say," she said.

"And you've heard it."

She stared back at him. "I've heard nothing. You're different, Aiden. Harder, edgier, angrier—I barely recognize you."

Sometimes he barely recognized himself.

"You're going to stay for a while," she said, as if daring him to argue. "You need to be home with your family. You need to heal."

"Is there room?" he asked, not sure which of his many siblings were staying in the house these days.

"There's always room for my children," she said.

"I'm thirty-two," he reminded her.

"When I look at you I can still remember the nine-year-old who wrapped up his lizard and gave it to me as a birthday present."

"You should have been honored. It was my favorite lizard," he said, relieved with the change of subject.

"You were testing me."

"Well, you passed. You weren't at all scared. I was impressed."

"Thank goodness it wasn't a snake. You can have your old room over the garage if you want. Shayla, Colton and Emma are in the other rooms right now."

"That's fine." He'd be happier out of the main house. There would be less chaos and hopefully fewer questions if his siblings or parents had to walk down the driveway and up the stairs to talk to him.

As he rose, the side door opened, and his sister Nicole walked in with her five-year-old son, Brandon. Nicole was exactly the same age as him. It had been weird at first to have his stepsister in the same grade, but Nicole was a fun-loving, optimistic sweetheart, who always found the good in people, and he could usually count on her to see the bright side of life.

A brown-eyed blonde with a curvy build, Nicole had always been attractive, especially to his friends. He'd tried to keep them away from her and for the most part he'd succeeded, until Nicole met Ryan. They fell in love at nineteen, moved in together at age twenty, married at twenty-one and become parents at twenty-seven. Unfortunately, the first Callaway grandchild had been diagnosed with autism two years ago at age three.

Aiden hadn't seen his nephew in almost a year, and while Brandon had grown about two inches, his brown eyes were no longer curious and alive but rather dull and dark, his gaze filled with shadows from the world he had retreated to. Aiden had hoped there would have been improvement by now, but it didn't appear that way.

"Aiden," Nicole said, happy surprise lighting up her eyes. "You've finally surfaced."

"Had to come up for air some time."

"I'm so glad. Brandon, do you remember your Uncle Aiden?"

Brandon didn't answer. He was tugging on her hand, trying to get away, his gaze fixed on the door leading out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

"Honey," she said again. "Look at your uncle."

Brandon pulled harder, his expression changing from dull to determined.

"It's okay," Aiden cut in. "We'll talk later."

"Good idea," she said, letting Brandon go.

"Where is he off to?" Aiden asked.

"He likes the fish in Dad's aquarium," she answered. "It's better than television to him. He loves coming over here to see the fish. And there aren't too many things that he loves."

He could see the strain in her eyes and got up to give her a hug. She was thinner than he remembered. "How are you doing with everything?"

"I'm good," she said, but the shadows under her eyes didn't support her answer.

"Really? You look tired."

"I am tired, but there's a lot to do. For the record, you don't look much better," she said as they both sat down. "Is that a black eye?"

"Long story," he said.

"They always are."

"So things with Brandon…"

"Are getting better," she said. "Not as much as we had hoped for by now, but there are small improvements in between the setbacks."

He admired her positive attitude. He couldn't imagine what she was going through. But she adored her son, and she'd fight for him to the last breath. "How's Ryan?"

Her smile faltered. "He's… I don't know how he is, to be honest. He works a lot, and he's not as optimistic as I am about Brandon's recovery, so we tend to frustrate each other. He mentioned the other day that maybe we should take a break."