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“Guaranteed.” The back door buzzer made her jump. “Wonder who that is?”
Erin followed her to the door, picking up her boxes on the way. “You don’t have afternoon deliveries?”
“Rarely. Almost everything comes in the morning.” Deb opened the back door, revealing a harried-looking FedEx worker. “Can I help you?”
He thrust a flat white cardboard envelope with his black handheld on top at her. “If you’re Deborah Boulanger, I have a letter for you, and it requires a signature.” He pointed at the screen on the handheld.
Suspecting she’d rather pick up a rattlesnake, Deb put her hands behind her back. “Who's it from?”
The guy turned the handheld around. “George Franks.”
“Nope. Send it back.” She’d rather pick up a double batch of bread dough without yeast—and that stuff was heavy, bulky and awkward. She pulled her phone from her pocket and snapped a picture of the envelope and handheld.
“You sure?” The man’s eyebrows crinkled.
Deb pointed at his handheld above the screen. “Yes. Look at the sender’s address.”
“Deer Lodge, Prisoner num...oh. Got it.” He pulled out the stylus and tapped. “Refused. Have a nice day.”
“You too.” They watched the big truck drive away.
Erin walked to her silver hotrod, Smoky, and opened the trunk. “Does that happen often?”
Deb grimaced. “Often enough, although this is the first time he’s sent something by a commercial carrier. He's always trying to get money out of me. He almost ruined my life the first time around. His second and third tries weren’t any better, and now I’m done.” After the first year, she’d written “Return to Sender” on every single letter. As much as she wanted children, she was thankful they hadn’t had any, because then she’d be tied to the idiot for life.
Erin nodded firmly. “Good for you. Does Sam know this is going on?”
Deb shrugged. “Yeah. There's not much either of us can do until he comes up for parole. With any luck at all, his record of harassment will keep him in prison.”
“Here's hoping.” Erin frowned at the dust left by the speeding truck.
Even if Franks got out, he wouldn’t be Deb’s problem, and there was no sense in worrying about it. Besides, Erin had better things to do. “Have fun tonight!”
Erin laughed, blushing. “Thanks. But let me know if there's something I can help you with, whether that’s Franks or my mother.”
Deb appreciated the offer, even if Erin couldn’t do anything. “Thanks, Erin.” They hugged and her muscle car rumbled away.
Deb returned to her bakery and the hundreds of cupcakes waiting. Erin was so lucky to find true love, twice. A bitter person would believe it wasn’t fair, but Deb knew better. Love grew slowly between two people, with mutual care and trust, not instant attraction, desperation or pretty words. The right person would come along someday, and he’d be worth the wait.
Despite her pep talk, the image of a mud-spattered, grimacing, dark haired man lingered.
Chapter 2
Michael Acer hauled his heavy bag into his house, waving at the retreating lights of Erin’s hotrod. It was a beautiful car, but loud—conversation between the three of them had been impossible. Which was just as well. Being the third wheel was bad enough, but Ryan and Erin acted like teenagers. At the airport, he’d pulled out his phone to find another ride before the two of them finally broke apart.
But if he had a woman like Erin, he’d probably do the same. Unfortunately, the odds against that were astronomical. His constant back pain, hearing problems, and debilitating, unpredictable migraines made him unreliable and short with customers; a relationship would never survive, no matter how much a certain cheerful, gorgeous, curvy blonde baker made him wish otherwise.
He dropped his duffle bag in the laundry room and carried his smaller backpack to the bathroom. Yanking his toiletry kit out, he pulled and replaced the ridiculous number of pill bottles he required to remain a functioning human being. Flying with meds was such a hassle. If he’d been able to drive, he’d have packed everything in daily dosage containers. But flying required carrying the original prescriptions, especially since one of them was an opioid. He’d taken all his meds with him every day, locking them in a vehicle while they were working, and never letting them out of sight otherwise. He’d also been very discrete when taking them. He needed the stronger drugs occasionally to function and he didn’t want to tempt a recovering addict. Or a thief—disaster zones attracted the best and worst human beings.
Michael loaded his day-of-the-week pill holder, took the doses he needed, brushed his teeth, and plopped into bed. The work in Louisiana, clearing muddy, water-logged furniture, appliances, wallboard and everything else from flooded houses was physically hard and mentally challenging. The exertion was good for him; he’d usually fallen asleep quickly and woken from only a few nightmares. But the faces of the homeowners were hard to forget. They were all grateful for the help, but many couldn’t accept that they’d lost everything, while others shut down, unable to face the devastation.
He stared up in the darkened room. If a flood swept through his apartment, he’d lose little he cared about. Their few family heirlooms were safe in Nic and Kim’s house and most of his remaining possessions were the simple things needed to live, like clothing, food, and furnishings. The only things he’d be sad to let go would be the shadow box he’d built to remember the Army brothers and sisters he’d lost in Afghanistan.
He raised his right arm, bringing it close to his face. With the blackout curtains, it was too dark to see the memorials inked on his skin. Even if he lost the shadow box, the tattoos would remain.
Remembering those terrible events wouldn’t help him sleep. He could take a sleep med, but didn’t want to be groggy on his first day back. Instead, he concentrated on his breathing, attempting the meditation the Veteran’s Administration shrink taught him. But rather than blanking his mind, a woman with long blonde hair in a high ponytail, bright blue eyes, and a short, curvy figure appeared.
Forgetting Deb Boulanger was impossible at the best of times; trying to fall asleep after a long day on the road was far from his finest hour. But dating her was impossible. She was too young, too positive, and simply too good for him. Plus, her sister was married to his brother, which made the whole thing just too weird. Any relationship between them was doomed to fail and she deserved a whole lot more, especially after her first marriage. George Franks had been a high school football hero, but a druggie even then. Michael had never understood why anyone fell for his so-called charm. But Deb had been a soft-spoken sophomore; with less than stellar parents, she didn’t stand a chance of resisting fifth-year senior Franks when all the jocks and cheerleaders were “shipping” the two of them.
