When Bex’s own hopes flagged, these two never failed to notice and offer encouragement. She was so lucky to have them in her life.
That choked her up for a moment, brought the sting of tears to her eyes. Romantic flings, career highs, fun times—all those things came and went, but friendships like theirs were as permanent as bedrock.
She paused, took a breath and squared her shoulders.
“I brought dessert,” she announced cheerfully. “Don’t kill me, but it’s those puff pastries from Madeline’s. You guys can’t drink wine or coffee, so you need some sort of vice.” She paused, chuckling. Some fitness guru she was, she thought wryly. “One pastry won’t hurt.” This was true enough, in her opinion. One pastry wouldn’t do any harm. The problem arose when the rate of consumption ratcheted up to three or four tasty treats—or ten. Feeling cocky, she added, “Considering that I just ran eighteen miles, I can afford a reasonable level of indulgence.”
Motormouth, her inner moderator gibed.
“Give me that bag.” Hadleigh grabbed for it as Bex came up the steps. “I’m having mine before lunch, so no lectures on nutrition, please. And if Tripp has the gall to say a word—he has the metabolism of a shark, the rat fink—I consider it your solemn duty as my friends to drop him in his tracks.” Paper rustled as she peered inside the bag. Sniffed appreciatively. “Oh, dear heaven,” she lamented happily, in a near moan, nudging Melody lightly with one elbow as she spoke, “it’s the ones with lemon whipped cream.”
“Yep,” Bex confirmed with a twinkle. Judging by the current reactions, if she hadn’t surrendered the bag willingly, one or both of these watermelon smugglers would have tackled her for it.
Melody, feigning greed, made a comical effort to snatch the fragrant sack from Hadleigh’s hands, and Hadleigh, in turn, pretended to dodge the move.
“Hey, share and share alike,” Melody said with a grin. “If you think you’re going to snarf up my share right along with your own, sister, think again.”
Hadleigh laughed, still employing diversion tactics, an awkward endeavor under the circumstances, and Bex wondered if the third pastry, intended to be hers, would survive this good-natured tussle.
Hadleigh correctly read Bex’s expression. Yes, she was fit and yes, she ran a fitness empire, but she loved Madeline’s lemon-cream dreams as much as anybody did. “You can drink wine,” Hadleigh continued, cheerfully accusatory. “We can’t. Coffee?” She waved one hand in a dismissive gesture while holding the pastry bag just out of Melody’s reach with the other. “Gone. A distant memory.”
Bex had to giggle at her friend’s histrionics.
Hadleigh took in her friend’s trim figure with a mock glower. “Laugh if you want, Becca Jean Stuart, but one of these days, you’ll be pregnant and craving all kinds of things you can’t have, and we’ll be the ones rubbing it in.”
“Yeah,” Melody agreed staunchly, making another grab for the bag.
For all the joking around, a whisper of sadness brushed Bex’s soul.
If Will, Hadleigh’s older brother and the love of Bex’s life, had made it home from Afghanistan, everything would be so different.
She’d loved Will Stevens so much.
Maybe the phrase, “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” was poignant, but it really didn’t offer much comfort in reflective moments like this one.
Tough up, woman, Bex told herself. Then, after a beat or two, when she could trust her voice again, she went on. “Once you two get a handle on dessert, what’s on the menu for lunch?” she teased. “I heard a rumor that we were going to eat an actual meal, and I could use some sustenance here.”
Hadleigh closed the bakery bag and rolled it shut with a little sigh of resignation. “I made spinach lasagna,” she answered. “Garlic bread, too. The guys will be here soon, so maybe we ought to fill our plates before they get back with the boys.”
“Boys?” Bex asked cautiously. Guys usually meant Tripp and Spence. Boys implied someone else.
“Tate and his sons,” Hadleigh explained airily.
It figured, Bex thought, unsurprised. She was going to have to deal with Tate Calder twice in one day? Just one more indication that God had a sense of humor.
Cosmic complaints department? This is Bex Stuart and I—
Please hold for the next available operator. Your call is very important to us...
* * *
THERE SHE WAS.
Again.
Tate had spotted Becca right away, back at the park. With looks like hers, she would’ve been hard to miss. She was trim, compact, with the kind of curves that drew a man’s eye, even beneath baggy sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. And then there was all that silky hair, trying to fight its way out of a crooked ponytail.
At the time, he’d hesitated to say anything because he was rusty, to say the least, when it came to the whole man-woman interaction thing. Out of practice.
This particular woman stirred him, deep down, in ways he couldn’t quite explain, rational thinker that he was. She made him want to take chances again, live for himself as well as his children.
But what if he fell for Becca—Bex, as the others called her—and his young sons got their hopes up, let down their guard, started to believe they might have a mother again, only to see the whole thing crash and burn? Would there be survivors?
He had no choice but to be philosophical.
Like it or not—Tate both did and didn’t like it—he and Bex were face-to-face again.
The boys had both scrambled out of the truck the minute he pulled to a stop. He was grateful that they enjoyed visiting the ranch so much, and were distracted, as always, by the dogs and horses and all that space to run wild in. It meant the kids probably hadn’t noticed that their dad had been flash frozen before their very eyes.
Tate worked up a smile, acknowledging Tripp and Hadleigh and Melody and Spence’s existence with a slight wave of one hand as he approached them. Odd, how, just a moment before, he’d been so focused on Bex that she might’ve been standing all alone on the ranch house porch.
In fact, she might have been the only other human being on the planet.
Still, he was nothing if not a left-brained realist, and his attention had slowly widened, after that first weird instant, to include the others.
The cognitive dials in his head began to click, registering further details. Construction had started on the new house, for one thing.
Tripp and Spence looked like what they were—happily married men. Satisfied men, maybe even a little smug.
Their wives, he noted, were downright radiant, the way women tended to be when they were not only cherished by their husbands, but gloriously pregnant, too.
And all the time he was formulating these observations, his sons were tearing around the yard with the dogs, overjoyed, high on blue skies and green grass and every blessing in between.
Of course, part of this boyish exuberance was for his benefit; Ben and Adam had been actively engaged in a campaign for a furry friend of their own for quite a while now. Although Tate wasn’t averse to the idea—he’d always loved animals himself—they lived in a rented house, and the landlord didn’t allow pets. So for the time being, anyway, adopting a critter was out of the question.
In