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like nothing else could. “Wanna go get some coffee with me?”
    I ran a finger along the bottom of three framed photos on the way down. One of Becca, Mom and me right after Dad died. Another one held Becca’s school picture. And the last one was of me and my parents when I was around ten, with my weenie dog Duchess in my lap. It was there on the wall my whole life, was still there when I moved in, and was one of the few things I couldn’t discard when I redecorated. Duchess was buried in the backyard, under a Texas-shaped pavestone in the flower bed.
    I opened the back door for Harley, poured myself another cup of coffee and turned the machine off so I’d quit, and then just—stood there—soaking in everything. The countertops were granite now instead of the original Formica. The blue-and-white-checked linoleum floors and shag carpet had been sacrificed for natural stone tile. While I’d changed everything I could afford to change and replaced the old furniture with our own, it was still my mother’s house in many ways. I’d even arranged the furniture differently so it wouldn’t feel the same, but it still came down to the same old shell with the same old ailments it always had. Creaky stairs. Noisy plumbing. And too many memories in the bookshelves.
    That was another thing that hadn’t changed much. In my mother’s will, after leaving me her house, she’d requested that her books remain in the wall-to-wall bookshelves that stretched across the living room. By “remain” I took that to mean anywhere on those shelves, so I’d taken out all the knickknacks and shoved them all together on one side so that my books would fit. I thought it was fair. I mean, what a bizarre request.
    Regardless, I complied, just like I always had. Feeling the jolt of memories that came attached to each and every book I touched. Each one had a story behind the story. And sometimes it was better that those stories stay right where they were rather than pull all my crap to the surface. I figured there would be time enough to deal with all that if I ever decided to remodel or sell. In four years it hadn’t been a priority.
    At the familiar scratch on the back door, I let Harley in and sank into the couch, curling my legs under me and pulling pillows onto my lap. She jumped up as if she were a little lap dog, the couch sinking where she planted herself, squirming half onto the pillows on her back. I chuckled as I rubbed her belly and all her taut muscles melted into mush, legs sprawled and head thrown back. Harley didn’t know about her breed’s reputation. Nobody told her she was supposed to be fierce. She thought she was born for belly rubs and bacon treats.
    The room was dim except for the early light streaming from behind the curtains at the front window. It was quiet. Too quiet. It was odd, not having Becca there making noise and griping about what clothes she couldn’t find or homework she’d forgotten to do. I was used to the chaos, and the lack of it had my ears ringing and my thoughts working way too fast.
    A light knock at my door cut them off, and I set my mug on a nearby side table as I checked the wooden clock sitting on it. Seven thirty-five.
    Harley contorted herself back upright and her ears went on alert.
    “What, did you forget something, Bec?” I said under my breath. “Like your key?”
    I got up shaking my head, the responsibility lecture already booting up in my head. Assuming it to be Becca, I opened the door unchecked, grateful I hadn’t opted for Patrick’s shirt. And felt every pore in my skin wake up. That last swallow of coffee sat in my stomach like mud.
    Noah stood before me with tired eyes, hands crammed into the pockets of a black leather bomber jacket. His gaze took me in quickly, but I had the feeling he could have passed a test on what he’d filed away in that two seconds.
    “Morning.”

Chapter 4
     
    Morning? Really? I opened my mouth to say something back, but nothing came out, so I