Chapter 13

With the six-month timetable looming over the town, the barn restoration project could really benefit from some focused attention, but Isaiah slapped a paint brush over the wood without really seeing either one. His mind’s eye was too busy replaying the way Tristan had lifted Aria’s hand to his mouth as if he had every right to kiss the woman.

Isaiah really shouldn’t have stood there watching them this morning. But honestly, he hadn’t expected to stumble over such an intimate scene. He’d tromped up the stairs intending to go to his room, when bam! Voices. Aria’s first in a low murmur he couldn’t catch, then Marchande’s. The stairwell from the first floor lay on the opposite end of the one to the third floor where they were standing, so he’d ducked back into the shadows, easily staying out of sight.

With the entire length of the second-floor hallway between them, he couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other but there was nothing wrong with his vision. The image of them together had been burned across his retinas. It hadn’t been so easy to stop himself from bursting out of his hiding place with every intention of taking Marchande apart for breathing the same air as Aria. And his knees still hurt from how long he’d stood with them locked after they’d vanished up the stairwell to the third floor.

Looked like things had worked out between them after all. Great. That was what should have happened when Aria approached a man and laid out her interest. She was amazing and she’d make Marchande really happy, if he bothered to take the time to get to know her. Tristan was his friend, but that didn’t mean Isaiah was blind to his faults, and Marchande went through women pretty fast. Aria was definitely worth changing your stripes for.

The man himself strolled up the dirt path from the road a solid hour after Isaiah had arrived at the barn to start on the task of painting, which had been on their to-do list for a couple of days.

“You’re here early, mon ami,” Tristan commented and held up an apple. “Want one? I stopped by Voodoo on the way. Mavis J says bonjour.”

“No thanks.”

Isaiah kept his eyes trained on the side of the barn, where even the most casual observer might note that the quality of his painting job left a lot to be desired. He’d have to redo it, which might not be a bad thing. If he was painting, he couldn’t work on ideas for Hardy or dwell on how he’d just talked Aria into helping him with that, which would force him into her orbit again. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to work with her, but that was before he’d realized that she’d move so fast with Le Torch, who’d certainly lived up to his reputation. Who would have thought she’d blaze ahead after hanging back so long?

“What’s with you, Elmer?” Tristan asked as he bit into his apple.

“Nothing is with me,” he growled and tried to line up his brush strokes so that it didn’t look like a three-year-old with questionable abilities to stay inside the lines had taken over his body. “What’s with you?”

“I meant with you getting here so early, quoi.” Marchande wandered over to examine the side of the barn where Isaiah had been working, though some air quotes surrounding the term “work” might be appropriate, since he’d spent a lot of time seething instead of painting. “But now that we’re on the subject, why are you trying to take my head off? Are you mad that you’ve been here so long without help?”

“I’m not mad,” he ground out. “I’m painting. See?”

Isaiah swirled the brush around, but he’d forgotten to dip it in the paint can at his feet so the bristles didn’t do much other than streak what he’d already halfheartedly covered.

“I’m sorry anyway,” Tristan said with a laugh that demonstrated he had no clue how close Isaiah was to seeing how his friend looked with a broken nose. “I had to stop by Aria’s to borrow a hair band and we got to talking.”

Was that what the kids were calling it these days? “Lucky you.”

Marchande clapped him on the back with a little more force than was necessary. “Don’t be jealous. I’ll ask her to let you borrow a hair band too.”

“I’m not—” He swallowed the rest because yeah. He was jealous.

Far more than he should be. More than was fair. More than was right. He’d pushed Aria directly into Marchande’s arms on purpose, because he said he’d help her. But knowing that he’d had a hand in it didn’t help ease the sharp thing in his stomach that dug deeper with each passing second as he reimagined Marchande’s mouth molding to the shape of Aria’s hand.

And there’d be more where that came from. Tristan had women falling all over him for a reason, and it wasn’t solely because of his pretty face—he knew how to talk to them, how to treat them. Had some wicked words at his disposal that made woman swoon and he’d regaled the team with tales of his exploits enough times that it was pretty clear he knew his way around a woman’s body too. They tended to like it when a man had talents in the area of making them feel good.

That line of thought did nothing to cool the temper that simmered just under Isaiah’s skin.

How was he supposed to stand around and watch Marchande put his mouth on Aria some more?

Answer: he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. It was obvious that his time in Superstition Springs had come to an abrupt halt. Except he was right in the middle of not one, but two really important projects that he’d committed to doing for Hardy. If a man couldn’t honor his word even when the going got tough, he had little character. At least that had always been Isaiah’s philosophy and it had carried him through BUD/s training where he’d learned what true pain and difficulty meant. And then he’d become a SEAL, fighting for justice in some of the darkest corners of the world. Never once had he faltered in his mission. Until Syria.

The cherry on his craptastic sundae arrived at that moment as Aria and Cassidy came into view at the head of the dusty road leading from town to the barn. He stifled a groan. Both ladies were still on the barn restoration project, which he’d conveniently forgotten. Apparently today was the day they’d opted to come by for a long morning of torture.

To make it even more fun, Havana and Hardy were with them.

Marchande stiffened the second he caught sight of Cassidy and said something under his breath that would get him bleeped on any sort of broadcast. Apparently, Isaiah wasn’t the only one blindsided by the company. Though he did wonder why Marchande was surprised to see the woman he’d just been cozying up to in the stairwell—had they not gotten around to discussing Aria’s plans for the day?

“Hi, guys,” Havana called cheerily, her bright red hair a garish contrast to Aria’s muted shade.

Aria’s sister held hands with Hardy and neither of them seemed at all concerned about public displays of affection that might make other people suddenly long to have that kind of easy warmth with another human.

Apparently it was a day for jealousy. Isaiah swallowed against the burn in his throat. “Wasn’t expecting a crowd.”

Hardy’s gaze shifted past Isaiah and Marchande to examine the side of the barn, his expression decidedly underwhelmed. “Came by to see the progress. We’ve got to move on this schoolhouse. When do you think you’ll have it ready for Cassidy and Tallhorse to start setting up for classes?”

Tallhorse had long been the only teacher in Superstition Springs until he’d taken on Cassidy as his apprentice of sorts. They planned to run a charter school together that the renovated barn would house. The Native American resident was real character, the kind that could be thirty-five or ninety, and had a Ph.D. in Russian Literature from Yale, an oddity Isaiah still didn’t get.

Isaiah glanced at Marchande, who was making a great show of ignoring Cassidy and didn’t give the slightest hint that he’d heard the question. So Isaiah answered on behalf of both of them. “Once we have the paint dry, we only have a few more weatherproofing things to do on the inside and about a day’s worth of work on the bathroom. We got that guy from Bastrop to do the majority of the plumbing, so it’s minor stuff. Easy.”

Clearly relieved, Hardy nodded. “That’s great. I knew I could count on you. The sooner we get this checked off, the better. Then you can double down on how to attract folks. We’re thinking of doing something big and splashy to generate interest in the town. Like a welcome to Superstition Springs party or some such. I’d like to put you in charge of that. A dose of Elmer would be stellar.”

An iron claw raked through Isaiah’s stomach. Obviously Hardy had gotten the wrong impression when Isaiah hadn’t categorically rejected his plea to handle the PR stuff. He should have just said no. There was no way he could handle responsibility for an entire kickoff party. It was too much pressure, too much opportunity to get it wrong.

But before he could utter a word, Aria piped up.

“Let us finish the barn first,” she said with a laugh that clawed at him in a much more disturbing way. “You don’t have to tell us that there’s more work to do. We get it. But we’ll do better working on one thing at a time.”

“That makes sense.” Hardy glanced at Havana and they exchanged a look that seemed to signal agreement. “I’m fine with reconvening on the welcome party, maybe later this week. Elmer, you come find me when you’re ready to talk.”

And with that, Hardy and Havana strolled off. In one fell swoop, Aria had read his mind and offered an alternative that allowed him ample breathing room. She’d rescued him.

That couldn’t have been an accident. Clearly, he’d communicated more to her last night about his reasons for not wanting to handle the job alone than he’d realized. He’d have rather kept all of his angst hidden, but clearly he didn’t get that choice. Aria saw through him to his most visceral level. What was he supposed to do with that?

“What would you like for me to work on?” Cassidy asked in the sudden silence. “I’m not really dressed for painting.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you walked out of the door this morning,” Tristan said with a good bit of sarcasm. “We’re renovating a barn, not going shopping. Then again, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out you didn’t own any clothes that you’d consider painting in.”

“You don’t have to be obnoxious,” she retorted, hands on her hips as she faced Marchande down. “Oh, I forgot. You can’t help it. You open your mouth and the obnoxiousness just pours out.”

Isaiah rolled his eyes and went back to painting as they continued hurling insults and criticism at each other, too unsettled over the way Aria had jumped in to save him from the mayor’s agenda to deal with someone else’s conflict. Which was as much a testament to his befuddled state of mind as anything. Usually he was the one who smoothed things over.

The back of his neck prickled as Aria leaned in to murmur, “Are they like, related or something? If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’d grown up sharing a bathroom. I mean, Ember and Havana fight like that too, but they love each other underneath. I don’t know what to do with this.”

That was only fair. Isaiah didn’t know what to do with the way his pulse had started jackhammering in his throat the moment he’d scented her hair, either. “I think the key is to keep them apart at this point. Maybe you should both work on something on the inside of the barn.”

That would benefit everyone, especially him. The less Aria had opportunity to lean into his space, the better.

“That’s a fantastic idea, thanks. I can’t take any more of the bickering.”

Isaiah nodded his agreement, willing her to disappear as quickly as possible. Apparently, that plan suited Cassidy to the ground, because the woman flounced through the door well ahead of Aria less than a minute later.

Good, now he could breathe.

Except his lungs wouldn’t quite expand like he’d have expected. Actually, he hadn’t thought much about his breathing lately, at least not when he’d been around Aria. She kept him so occupied with everything else that his lungs were the last thing on his mind.

“That woman is going to be the death of me.” Marchande’s expression was nothing short of black as the man picked up a paint brush from the pan in front of him.

“Which one?”

“Cassidy, of course.” He said her name as if spitting out poison. “Why would I have a problem with Aria?”

“I would hope that you wouldn’t,” Isaiah muttered. “Given that she’s been interested in you for so long.”

“Yeah, she told me. She’s a nice lady. Too bad it’s not going to work out for us.” Marchande shrugged, oblivious to the way Isaiah’s pulse had just shot back into the stratosphere. “But that leaves the field open for you, right? I’d get on that if I were you. She’s not going wait around forever for you to pull your head out of your rear end.”

Isaiah tried to talk and swallow at the same time and choked on it. The subsequent coughing fit brought tears to his eyes. But that didn’t stop his brain from picking up the information that Marchande had oh so casually dropped and running with it.

Aria and Marchande aren’t an item. How? Why? What was with all the hand kissing in the stairwell then?

“You okay?” Marchande whacked him on the back a couple of times and then went back to painting nonchalantly. “You thought your feelings for her were a big secret or something?”

“Not a secret,” Isaiah wheezed, desperately trying to wrap his thoughts around something that resembled cohesive. “Because it’s not a thing.”

“Please. Anyone can see that you have it bad for her. I told her that too.”

The paint brush fell from Isaiah’s suddenly nerveless fingers. “You did what?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t make it sound like you were a blubbering idiot or anything.”

Tristan stroked his brush over the side of the barn with maddening care, falling silent as he worked on fixing the mess Isaiah had made with the paint. As metaphors went, that one was a doozy.

“What did you say?” he demanded. “What did she say?”

“What, are we in third grade? Faut que tu te bouges. Point barre.”

“Stop being a jerk,” Isaiah ground out. “This is not the time or place for your cryptic French crap.”

Marchande just laughed. “Step it up, mon ami. Talk to her. If it’s meant to be, it’ll all fall into place.”

Easy for him to say. He’d never failed with a woman in his life. Isaiah, on the other hand, had few relationships in his rearview mirror, and those had all been surface level type things that he’d invested zero emotional energy into since his sole focus over the last decade had been keeping his team both alive and motivated to waltz into dangerous situations.

But it didn’t matter what his experience with women was, because there was nothing with Aria to fall into place. Could not be. The talk Isaiah needed to have with her looked a lot more like damage control than anything. She could not continue to have the impression that there was the remotest possibility that something of a romantic nature could work between them.

No matter how badly he wanted to tell her the exact opposite.

But the stark truth that Tristan had just unwittingly uncovered couldn’t be denied. There was nothing left to hide behind—Isaiah had been falling for Aria this whole time.

So far, it had been easy to ignore since he’d been under the mistaken assumption that it couldn’t go anywhere. She’d been destined for someone else, after all. Yet he had Tristan to thank for surfacing the real reason he couldn’t lay it on the line and admit to his growing feelings—she deserved so much more than a broken SEAL who had no place in this little town she called home.

“I will talk to her,” Isaiah mumbled, mostly to put an end to this conversation that never should have happened.

Marchande needed to learn how to keep his big fat mouth shut, especially when it came to other people’s love lives. But whatever. If nothing else, all of Isaiah’s problems could be put to rest in one shot. All he had to do was leave, which he’d known was coming the moment Hardy had dropped the idea of Isaiah organizing a shindig for the town. This new revelation pushed the timeframe up to immediately, which meant Hardy needed to hear how Isaiah was fresh out of glue. And then he owed it to Aria to tell her personally that he’d be taking off.

His imminent departure spurred him to get as much done on the barn-turned-schoolhouse as possible. Plus, it gave him the added benefit of avoiding that scene with Aria for as long as possible. By the end of the day, the entire exterior of the barn had been painted and he and Marchande knocked out the rest of the exterior weatherproofing. Funny how he’d managed to motivate himself well enough to complete a task that had been lingering for some time.

Aria and Cassidy had made good progress too, and the ladies called it quits nearly at the same time as Isaiah and Marchande finished up. The four of them met up in the clearing near the new schoolhouse door but apparently Cassidy and Tristan hadn’t figured out how to play nice with each other. Both of them quickly took their leave, Cassidy heading toward her house and Tristan heading toward town, presumably to go to Ruby’s or the hotel.

In the awkward silence, Isaiah and Aria stared at each other. The sun had crept toward the horizon, but it wasn’t late enough for sunset, so her hair remained its typical muted red.

“I need to tell you something,” he said before he lost his nerve. He’d have rather hashed this out with Hardy first but Aria was here now. Better to rip off the Band-Aid as soon as possible. “You asked me a while back when I might move on to my next adventure and I think it’s time.”

“What, now?” she gasped. “We’re still working on the barn.”

“No. We’re pretty much finished,” he countered casually. “I think Tristan can handle the rest. I’ve been pretty itchy for a while. It was only a matter of time, right?”

Her bemused expression tore through him unexpectedly, which felt oddly appropriate. Of course this should hurt—and probably a lot more. He’d never have enough pain piled on top of his chest to atone for his crimes.

“I was always kind of braced for it. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon,” she said.

“What can I say? It’s time and there’s not really any reason to stay.”

The lie nearly lodged in his throat but he managed to spit it out without tripping over it. The real test lay in whether he’d sold it—she’d picked up on his angst earlier, so there was no guarantee she wouldn’t sense something amiss now.

But she seemed to absorb his statements readily, nodding fast and blinking a lot. “Okay. I’ll miss our conversations. But I understand.”

“Okay, good.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, though why he was so reluctant to walk away remained a mystery. “I’ll miss you too.”

Not their conversations. But her. She didn’t seem to notice the slip, just backed away quickly. “I have to get to the diner. Please don’t leave without saying goodbye. Promise me.”

“I won’t.” Though that might be a lie too. He didn’t think he could do this again.

How was he supposed to leave when he’d just realized he’d found the place where he could breathe? It was wherever Aria Nixon was. And he had to go.