The Ashtons: Cole, Abigail and Megan. Maureen Child

      Chapter Two

      “You’re driving an SUV.”

      “I prefer to call it a suvvy.” Dixie did not care for the look of unholy delight on Cole’s face. She opened the door on the driver’s side. “Were you going to ride to the carriage house with me, or would you prefer to tote and flex over there on foot?”

      He climbed in, looking around. “I could have pictured you in a Ferrari. Or something tiny and fuel efficient with a bumper sticker asking if I’ve hugged a tree today. But an SUV?” He shook his head, grinning. “It’s so soccer mom.”

      “Nothing wrong with soccer moms.” She hit the accelerator a little too hard. “I do a fair amount of work on location. I needed to be able to haul around my equipment, not to mention the Hulk, and this is the most fuel efficient suvvy on the market.” And why was she so defensive, anyway? “So what are you driving these days? A shiny new Beamer or a Benz?”

      “A five-year-old Jeep Grand Cherokee, eight cylinders, standard,” he answered promptly.

      “An SUV.”

      “Yep.”

      She glanced at him—and they both burst out laughing. “Were we really that shallow before?” she asked. “Arguing about cars as if it mattered.” She shook her head, remembering.

      “Speak for yourself. I wasn’t shallow. Just stupid.”

      Not stupid, she thought. Obsessed, maybe. Ambitious, certainly. Grimly determined to outdo the father who’d walked out on him, to prove that he and his family didn’t need Spencer Ashton in any way—definitely. Dixie had understood that. She just hadn’t been able to live with it.

      The carriage house was located just behind and to the east of the main house, but to get there by car they had to drive well past the house and circle back, passing through a portion of the vineyards and a small grove of olive trees. Even in January, the trees were picturesque with their knotty limbs and graygreen foliage, and the hummingbird sage and licorice plants beneath them were green.

      The grove was even prettier in the summer, surrounded by rows and rows of lush vines, Dixie remembered wistfully. But perhaps it was just as well she was here in January.

      “So why a suvvy?” she asked lightly as she came to a stop in front of the small stucco building. “You can’t need to haul things around that often.”

      “Not as much these days, no. But for a while I was. I bought a small cabin a few years ago and have been working on it ever since.”

      “A fixer-upper?” she asked, surprised. The Cole she’d known had wanted the newest and best of everything.

      “You could call it that, if you’re feeling generous.” He opened the door.

      She got out. “What would you call it?”

      “Pretty decent now. Uninhabitable when I bought it. I wanted the land, the view, and planned to tear down the cabin and put up something new and shiny. Somewhere along the line, though, I got hooked on power tools. The cabin’s been my excuse to use them. Do you need all of that carried in?” He gestured at the piles in the back.

      She grinned. “I warned you.”

      “So you did.”

      Dixie carried the smaller suitcase and the tote with her paints. Cole grabbed the other suitcase and the huge roll of untreated canvas. This diminished but didn’t empty the pile in her suvvy.

      The door to the carriage house was unlocked. Dixie pushed it open and stopped a foot inside.

      Nothing had changed. From the pine paneling to the white curtains to the simple furniture, everything looked just as it had eleven years ago.

      Cole nudged her. “Sightsee later. This is heavy. Are you sure you don’t have a body rolled up inside?”

      “Of course not. The blood would make a mess of my canvas.”

      “Your weights, then? Move, Dixie.”

      She moved, stopping beside the battered leather couch. The last time she’d seen that couch, she’d been naked. “Isn’t this the same Navajo blanket on the back of the couch?” A bit worn now, but the colors were as beautiful faded as they had been new. Bemused, she ran a hand over it.

      “I remember how it looked wrapped around you.”

      Her hand remained on the blanket. Her gaze flew to Cole’s—and the past crashed into the present, smashing itself all over her, making a mess of her mind and her heartbeat.

      At that moment she wanted him. Wanted him badly.

      Twenty-two fuzzy pounds thumped against her leg, nearly knocking her over and making a noise like a chain saw.

      Cole’s eyes widened. “What in the world—?”

      “Meet Hulk.” Thank you, Hulk, she told him silently, bending to pick him up. He sprawled, limp with pleasure, over her shoulder while she ran a hand over cowlicky gray fur. Hulk loved attention.

      “As in The Incredible?” Cole looked dubious. “He is a cat, right?”

      “That’s the rumor.”

      “I’d better let my mother know about him.”

      “She’s not allergic or something, is she? Mercedes said it was okay to bring him.” She rubbed him under the chin the way he liked, and his motor revved loudly. “He always travels with me.”

      “I’m sure it will be fine. I don’t think she was prepared, though. She hasn’t stocked the grounds with antelope or gazelle for him to feed on.” He eyed the cat. “Good thing there aren’t any small children in the neighborhood.”

      “Very funny. Hulk’s big, but he’s a sweetie. He loves everyone, children included.”

      “For dessert?”

      She huffed out a breath. “What do you have against my cat?”

      “Tilly.”

      “There shouldn’t be a problem. If he has to, Hulk will take to a tree, but he isn’t easily intimidated.”

      “Tilly is. Though terrified describes her better.”

      Oh. She grimaced. “I’ll try to keep him in.” She detached Hulk and poured him onto the couch. He gave her a reproachful look and jumped down. Cat honor demanded that he not stay where he’d been put, even if he wanted to.

      It took three more trips to finish unloading her suvvy. Dixie managed not to slide back into memory land, but she was very ready for Cole to leave by the time they brought in the last few items. Her emotions were a jumble. She needed a sit.

      With typical contrariness, once he’d deposited her bag of books Cole seemed ready to stay and chat. “Weird pillow,” he said, nodding at the zafu she’d placed on the floor by an empty wall. “Gives me all kinds of kinky thoughts.”

      “It’s for my sits.” When he looked blank she added, “Meditation, Cole. You have heard of meditation?”

      “Ah.” He nodded. “Does that mean you aren’t practicing witchcraft anymore?”

      “It wasn’t my path.” She huffed out an impatient breath. “Look, do you still run all the time?”

      “Two or three times a week.”

      “That’s your mental-health break. I sit.”

      He burst out laughing. “No, no—” he said, holding up a hand. “Don’t blow up at me. I just thought that I should have known you’d prefer sitting to running.”

      She