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words had wounded, his pride refused to show it. “You know, maybe that’s a good idea. We could straighten this mess out a lot faster.”
    “You made this mess, Jack.” Misty’s lips turned down, and she swiped tears from her cheeks. “ You .”
    “If that’s the case,” he held his voice low, level, and clenched his hands in an effort to control his temper, “Then I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it.”
    “Why now?”
    “Misty—” Jack took a step toward her, grimaced when she backed away in a counter-measure. “I wish you’d quit doing that.”
    “I wish a lot of things, too.”
    “You’re not making this easy.”
    “You expected me to?”
    “I expected…” What, exactly, had he expected? He turned away to pace the width of the drive, slapping the thighs of his jeans. This was all wrong—everything was wrong, like a slow-motion replay of the days leading up to his previous departure. He sure didn’t want to play that scene again.
    Dear God, make it right…guide me to make it right…
    Turning back, he took two giant steps toward Misty, closing the gap before she could react. He reached for her hands, grasping her smooth, delicate fingers in his. “I’m not here to hurt you—or Allie.”
    “It’s too late for that.” Though she didn’t pull away, sobs came with a vengeance, making Misty’s entire body quake. “Just go, Jack.”
    “I can’t….I don’t want to.” The realization hit him like a rockslide. He drew her into his arms, sheltering her as the sky opened up and rain began to splatter them, the drops matching the cadence of her tears. “I want to make things right with you, and I need to see my daughter.”
     
    ****
     
    Misty’s head threatened to explode.
    This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
    The words grew to a chant that matched the throbbing at her temples. As her vision clouded over, she disentangled herself from Jack’s arms and gathered the nearly-empty bag of coffee beans.
    His scent clung to her—spearmint gum and soap and a hint of rich earth that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Somehow, Misty managed to unfold herself and find her footing. Heart skittering, she staggered blindly toward the stairs and used the railing as a lifeline while she scaled to the porch.
    “Misty…” Jack’s voice was a far-off echo. “Wait.”
    “It’s raining.” Drops fell in huge, sloppy plops, like bullets from the sky. The wind kicked up, whipping her damp hair in a wild, dark wave. “I have to go inside.”
    “We need to talk.”
    “You should get out of the storm, too.” She nodded slightly, though the effort cost her, and heard the slap of his boots over concrete as he followed.
    They snaked through the living room and into the kitchen, where Misty collapsed into a chair at the table. Her laptop sat open and a flurry of notes and color-coded file folders scattered the table.
    “Coffee…please,” she managed. “Or there’s a good chance this headache is going to kill me.”
    Jack crossed to the sink; water ran and splashed into the carafe and then the coffeemaker reservoir before the nearly-empty bag of beans was jostled from Misty’s hands.
    “Where’s the grinder?”
    Misty lifted a finger, pointed blindly.
    “OK, then.” The machine whirred as it crushed the beans, and Misty felt her heart crushing, too.
    How can this be? How can—
    As Jack searched for mugs, cabinet doors slammed and the explosion in Misty’s head lifted her from the seat. She groaned.
    “Stop that.” The words were little more than a grunt. “My head…” She lowered it into her hands, massaged her temples.
    “Creamer?”
    “Fridge.” Somehow, her lips formed the words. Her vision was slowly, painfully, returning. “Top shelf, back right corner.”
    “Sugar?” Jack two-stepped around the kitchen, his bulk filling the space. Working with tools—heavy equipment—had been good to him. The muscles that strained beneath a snug black T-shirt were proof.