Page 38 of Tough Nut to Crack

Not a text, not a wave when I drove past him on the way to work the other day.

Nothing.

As quick as he is to make suggestions about my food where the people of Lindell are concerned, he kept his lips clamped shut when I mentioned having to sell the house my parents left for me when they chased after my brother after he got married and then announced his wife was pregnant less than a year later. I fully understood them wanting to be near a grandchild, but they barely even looked back when they left town. The obligation to go to them inSan Antonio has been left to me for holidays and family gatherings. I spent Christmas alone because my parents and my brother's family went on a cruise, something I wasn't able to afford.

I know a lot of my battle to be successful has a lot to do with wanting my parents to be proud of me. They always boast about Ricky's, and his wife's, successes. They don't outwardly insult me, but there are no accolades tossed my way, either.

It stings to be that one in the family, and I want to change it. Pride keeps me in town because both my mom and dad told me I couldn't make money here, that a business in Lindell would be a waste of money and a sure failure. They never saw this town as their final landing place. They raised their kids here and didn't blink when leaving it, and me, in the dust after Ricky graduated law school and stayed in the city.

The silence from the last couple of days paints surprise across every feature of my face when I answer the door and find Mac standing onmy front porch.

He stands there, without speaking, as he chews the inside of his cheek.

"You have a loose board right there," he eventually says, pointing to the board I know better than to step on in fear of falling through the porch.

"And the toilet in the hallway bathroom refills at random intervals throughout the day," I mutter. "Did you come here to criticize anything else?"

My annoyance with him is evident, but honestly, I'm annoyed with everything right now. Sage had to cut some of my hours back this month because people are focused on getting fit for their New Year's resolutions, and reading tends to drop some until the middle of February when anticipated new releases pick back up. I can't fault her for making business decisions that are good for her, no matter how much they affect me. But I had to put in an application at several businesses in town because I get indigestion every time I think of selling this house.

Not being able to keep the house my parents gave to me, probably out of pity, seems like a greater failure than being unsuccessful with my catering business.

"I have an offer for you," he says instead of feeding into my irritation. "One that would help you postpone, if not altogether eliminate, your need to sell your house."

"I didn't tell you what was going on in my life because I wanted you to come up with a plan to fix it. I was just commiserating with you because of your own struggles," I mutter, suddenly feeling too damned tired to even have this conversation with him. "Why do men think they need to fix shit that doesn't pertain to them?"

His jaw ticks as he stands there staring at me, and I couldn't care less if he's irritated with me. I don't need to be rescued.

"Are you done?" he asks after a long beat of silence.

I cross my arms over my chest, doing my best to ignore the way his eyes drop to my breasts before lifting back up to meet mine.

"Maybe try not to be a hero all the time," I say as I grip the door and shove it forward.

His boot stops it before it can close in his face, and I glare down at the offensive thing as the bridge of my nose burns with the threat of tears. I'm too in my own head right now to deal with this shit without crying, and he already showed up the other night, interrupting my tears. I'm usually a stronger person than this, but I'd rather live inside of my pity party alone than have witnesses to it.

"Riley," he growls, his grumble heavy and full of gravel. "Would you stop?"

"Would you just go away? Why do you keep showing up here?" I ask, my hand still on the door while I wait for him to be distracted enough to pull his foot back so I can slam the damn thing in his face.

"I hate the hotel," he says as if it explains everything.

"Sorry. That must suck for you."

"I haven't had a good night's sleep since you practically burned my house down."

"Are you serious?" I snap, feeling like a fool for thinking he'd gotten over that at least enough to be civil to me instead of pointing fingers as if he has no blame in the matter.

"I slept really good in your bed the other night."

"Oh!" I say in an exaggerated tone. "So that's what this is about? Word to the wise, when you want to fuck someone lead with flirting maybe rather than being a giant asshole."

The door nearly flies back and hits me in the face when I attempt to slam it once again, but of course, his hand is there to stop it.

The grin on his face makes me want to get the bat out from the hallway closet that I use to scare off the family of raccoons who love to dine on my garbage late at night.

"Fuck no. I'm not here to sleep with you again," he says, and I do my best to stand tall rather than let my shoulders slump because it feels like an insult. "I'm not explaining this well at all."

"If your goal is to hurt my feelings, you're doing a bang-up job."

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