Page 13 of Homecoming Heartbreaker

But kissing Molly was the most alive he’d felt in years. When she stepped into his arms and her mouth touched his, she became the watering can and he the starved-for-nutrients plant. Excitement and need coursed through him and if Giada hadn’t banged on the door, he knew their kiss would’ve moved from hot to nuclear.

Mack held his palm parallel to the ground and shook his head when he saw the slight tremor in his fingers. She made him feel like this: shaky, weird, out of control.

That wasn’t acceptable.

Right, he needed to nip this in the bud. He’d have a decent discussion with her, apologize for leaving her and ask whether they could put the past behind them. Once she accepted his apology—Molly had never been one to hold grudges—they could move on. He’d keep his interactions with her as brief and as professional as possible.

It would be fine. Ithadto be fine. He would not let Molly—and his being back home—make him lose sight of what was important.

And that was keeping control. Keeping it together. He was determined to leave here with his heart intact, his world unchanged.

Sorted, Mack thought as he walked down the hallway to join Giada and Molly in Jameson’s downstairs sitting room.

It annoyed Jameson that he couldn’t leap to his feet when Giada walked into his small sitting room off his large, ground-floor master suite. He was an old-fashioned Southern man and it galled him that he neither had the energy nor the strength to leap to his feet like he always did.

Energy was something still in short supply and he was sick of feeling like crap. Jameson ran his hand over his stubbled jaw and, briefly, wished he’d shaved. But he wouldn’t let Mack help him and he still tired easily. But if he was better at accepting assistance and if he had a little more patience, he’d look a lot better than he currently did.

That wasn’t a problem his ex-housekeeper had.

She barely looked any older than she did when she worked for him twenty years ago. Her hair was still thick and wavy and he liked the threads of gray breaking up all that rich brown. Her blue eyes were as direct as ever and Jameson shifted in his chair, thinking that she could look right into his soul. Her body was, maybe, a little curvier, and there were fine lines at the corners of her take-no-bull eyes. For a woman in her late fifties, she was damn sexy.

He felt like day-old roadkill.

Jameson inhaled her perfume as she bent down to kiss his cheek, surprised at the hint of action in his pants. Okay, so his attraction to Giada hadn’t changed. He’d been into her a long time ago but circumstances—her working for him and the fact that he had his hands full running Moonlight Ridge and raising three boys—conspired against his making a move.

“Jameson—” Giada kept her hands on his shoulders and shook her head “—you look like hell.”

Great. Exactly what he needed to hear. “Giada. You’re the very last person I expected today.”

Giada sat down in the chair opposite him and lifted her shoulders in a languid, oh-so-Italian shrug. “I came back to Asheville, heard that you have been ill and thought I’d check up on you.” Her eyes moved to the ashtray sitting on the side table next to his easy chair, and a deep frown pulled her dark, thin eyebrows together. The smoke from his cigar drifted toward the roof.

“Mannaggia a te!”Giada muttered. He didn’t speak Italian but he recognized curse words when they were directed at him.

Before he could respond, she surged to her feet, picked up the cigar and crushed its tip, mangling it into a mess.

“Hey, those are expensive!”

“You’ve had brain surgery! Surely, your doctor told you to stop smoking?” Giada demanded, her hands on those luscious hips. She was short, the top of her head barely hit his shoulder, but she was feisty. And fierce.

He was saved from having to find an excuse, not that he had or needed one—if he wanted to smoke he damn well could!—by Molly stepping into the room. Jameson accepted her kiss and when she stepped back, noticed she was looking tired. And stressed.

He had no doubt that she and Mack had exchanged words.

M&M, he used to call them, his two peas in a pod. His oldest son and the daughter of his heart. Watching her heart break after Mack left had been pure torture, but apart from putting her to work to keep her busy and her mind off Mack, he hadn’t interfered.

Raising three boys had never been a walk in the park but those few months directly after the accident had been a shit show. In hindsight, he knew that most of his energies had been directed toward Travis, spending hours and hours with him at the hospital. He’d been there for his injured son, but he’d failed to realize his two other sons were as psychologically damaged as Travis was physically hurt.

Grey retreated mentally and emotionally and Mack had dealt with his guilt and pain by running. There were still walls between him and his boys—lower than they’d been before—but still there. Jameson wanted them gone. And he wanted his sons to be brothers again, as tight as they were when they were kids. And if it took a freaking brain aneurysm to get his boys back and talking to each other, then so be it.

Failing that, he’d just bash their heads together...

Molly rubbed her thumb over his frown lines. “You’re not supposed to be worrying, Jameson.”

Jameson captured her hand and pressed a kiss onto her fingers. “Don’t fuss, Mol.”

“It’s what I do best,” Molly told him, sitting down next to him on the sofa.

“Did you see Mack?” Jameson asked her.

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