Page 6 of Someone to Tempt
“Be honest, Iris.” I don’t hide my temper. It takes two to tango and all that. “Do you really care? Or are you more concerned with the Byrne Family Foundation continuing its financial support of this town?”
To her credit, she doesn’t react. Iris has a world-class poker face. And a tone to match. “I assumeyou’reconcerned whether his giving pledge will drain the family coffers to the detriment of him funding your…” She waves a hand, her slender fingers flapping up and down as if indicating my entire being. “Trust fund fun.”
If I hit Iris’s soft spot with the crazy comment, she’s taking a sledgehammer to mine. I know what most people think about me. It’s what I let them believe because my reputation as a lazy, loafing, good-for-nothing rich boy is easy enough to manage.
There are still a few people in the world whose opinions matter to me. My grandfather is one of them, which is why I’m here. Iris happens to be another, even though I’ll deny it if pressed.
“My trust is separate from the foundation money.” I wink at her. “All good here.”
She makes a sound close to a growl low in her throat as a large SUV slows to a stop next to us. The passenger side window lowers.
“Is everything okay?” a woman calls, leaning over the console, her gaze tracking between us.
I don’t know if Iris realizes she lets out a sigh—most probably of relief, but I see it. I’m annoyingly attuned to every tiny motion this woman makes.
“Can you give me a ride, Sadie?”
“Wherever you need to go,” this Sadie answers. She must read something in Iris’s expression because her eyes narrow when they lock on me.
I’m pretty sure I don’t recognize her as a friend of Iris’s or her brother’s from back in the day. Not that I paid too much attention. Most days that summer, I was too drunk to commit a face to memory.
Iris takes a step toward the SUV, then looks over her shoulder at me. “I care about your grandfather because the people in this town matter to me. I might not be the mostfunmayor Skylark has ever had, but Icare. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. Caring counts for a hell of a lot more than having a pie splat in my face or letting myself be drenched in a dunk tank.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m the one who got hit—in the head—because her words don’t make a damn bit of sense. My time with Iris that summer was the most fun I ever had, even if I couldn’t let myself care the way she needed someone to.
I don’t mention that. I’m a fool but not an idiot.
“Pie in the face feels like the opposite of fun,” I say, and she rewards me with the barest hint of a smile.
“So is a trip down memory lane,” she murmurs, then climbs into her friend’s vehicle. They drive away, leaving me alone beside the truck. I glance around and realize a small crowd has gathered on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle the mayor and I created. Slow news day in Skylark.
4
JAKE
“Catching up with an old friend,”I announce to the crowd, feeling like the outsider I am in this town. “Remember to always use a crosswalk.”
A few onlookers wave and nod before moving down the sidewalk or returning to the stores lining the street. I’m not sure if anyone recognizes me as Gilbert Byrne’s grandson or remembers the summer I spent raising hell in this town after my brother died. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
Skylark has been my grandfather’s home for the past twenty years, but it isn’t mine. I’ve come to Colorado for him and our family’s legacy, and then I’m out of here. The beauty of the remote age of office work is I can run the foundation from Austin just as easily as I can in Skylark.
My grandpa explained how Iris had been appointed mayor months ago, but somehow I figured I could avoid her during my visit. She shot that plan all to hell when she rushed across the street without looking. I’m sure she didn’t expect someone to come barreling around the corner, especially someone whohadbeen texting and driving. Not that I’m admitting it to her. I want to claim no hard feelings about how things ended between us, but the sharp ache in my heart after seeing her only reminds me that where Iris is concerned, the emotions are like a dry, crusty scab over a cut that just won’t heal.
Glancing at my watch as I climb back into the truck, I toss my phone on the bench seat next to me—there’s nothing I need it for anyway—and start the six-mile drive to my grandfather’s ranch. Thankfully, the pastry box on the passenger side floor wasn’t jostled in my near miss with Iris.
The Colorado scenery never ceases to amaze me. Jagged peaks of the nearby Flatirons dominate the horizon, and the mountainsides display patches of vivid yellow as aspens stand out against the dark pines. Clusters of cottonwoods border the creek that winds to the south of the highway, golden leaves shimmering in the bright afternoon sun. The light is less intense than in the summer months, everything bathed in a gentle glow. I can feel the change of seasons in the air and hope to tap into that energy. I’m going to need it.
As I pull to a stop in the wide gravel driveway, I tell myself I’m ready for this. Despite my run-in with Iris, I’m ready to prove I’m not the screwup everyone thinks I am.
Everything about my grandfather’s sprawling ranch is picture-postcard perfect, except for the man stepping out of the front door. I grab the bakery box, roll my shoulders against the tension that has immediately gathered there, and adopt a sneer—the expression my father expects from me.
“Hey there, Daddio,” I call good-naturedly. Neither of us are fooled.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
I hold up the box. “Can I offer you a donut?”
It’s Dad’s turn to sneer. I doubt he’s allowed even a crumb of white flour, let alone processed sugar, to pass over his lips into the temple of his body. When we were kids, Mike would use his allowance to bribe the housekeeper into bringing us candy, cupcakes, and cookies. We’d sit on the floor of his closet and laugh and feast until our bellies hurt, and then laugh some more. My older-by-eighteen-months brother had an insatiable sweet tooth and would continue shoveling in the junk food long after I gave up, rolling around on the carpeted floor, nauseous and begging for release.
