Night Maneuvers - By Jillian Burns Page 0,20

friendship back on track by offering to help with her Mustang. But that had been just as disastrous as the air combat maneuver the day before.

Come on, McCabe. Shake it off.

The other day he’d been so focused on the weird vibes with Hughes he hadn’t really noticed the house. Her new home was small and old, probably built around the 1950s or ’60s. An old tree shaded the green lawn. Not something one typically saw in Vegas.

Mitch could tell the front yard had recently been landscaped with trimmed shrubs and brightly colored flowerbeds. Hughes—or someone—had put a lot of sweat equity into the curb appeal. If he’d ever once dreamed of the perfect family home as a kid, this would have been it.

Now it just made him want to jump back in his Jeep and head for the nearest bar.

The front door was open and he let himself in. The living room had the same homey atmosphere the front lawn had promised, with a comfy sofa, a warm area rug and a club chair all grouped together. This front room had already been painted a soft buttery cream color. A week ago, he would have doubted this house would suit Hughes. But now he wasn’t so sure.

Before he was tempted to go check her bathroom for romance novels, he strode into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Grady was on a ladder painting the wall above white cabinets.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Grady grumbled without ever looking away from the wall and his roller.

“Am I late?” Mitch made a show of checking his watch and then popped the cap off his bottle.

“We’ve been here since 0800.” Grady finally looked down at him and then descended the ladder. “But I saved the master bedroom for you.” He shoved a paint can and a clean roller into Mitch’s arms.

“Where’s Hughes?” No way Mitch was painting a bedroom with Hughes in it.

“Out back. Making lunch.”

“Mitch! You’re here.” Lily swept into the kitchen and hugged him. “Oooh, your aura is cloudy.” She cupped his cheek. “Poor confused guy. You need a tarot reading from my friend, Sun—”

“Lily, sweetheart,” Grady cooed as he came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. “The last thing McCabe needs is your sympathy.”

“But, Ethan, if it weren’t for Mitch giving you my apology card, we might not have found each other again. He’s the one who called me when—”

“Okay. Okay.” Grady smiled warmly at his wife. “Whatever you want, baby.”

“Oh, Ethan.” When Lily put her arms around Grady’s neck, lifted onto her tiptoes and started kissing the guy, Mitch took that as his cue to leave. He could only stomach so much saccharine.

As he stepped around the couple, he could see through the sliding glass door into the backyard. His hand halfway to the door handle, he came to a dead stop.

Hughes was standing in front of a fancy new propane grill wearing cut-offs and a backward ball cap. She’d spilled paint on a faded, too small T-shirt that hugged her tiny curves. She was flipping burgers and, as he watched, she wiped her temple on her T-shirt and managed to smear white paint on the side of her face.

God, she looked cute.

Mitch choked on the thought. Cute? Cute was for puppies and kittens. Not women. And definitely not women he was usually attracted to. He liked ’em brash and bold, bodacious and big-busted. Not necessarily in that order.

As if she sensed his stare, she turned and caught sight of him standing there like a clueless recruit, his hand paused in midair. She frowned, pointed to the nonexistent watch on her left wrist, and motioned for him to come outside.

Mitch stepped out and heat blasted him like jet-engine blowback. An empty pool teased him with possibilities. He pictured it filled with sparkling turquoise water beckoning him to escape the heat.

“Now you decide to show up?” Hughes berated. “Just in time for lunch?”

“Hey, I never said what time I’d be here.” The landscaping in the backyard was a work in progress. Work being the operative word. Mitch shuddered at the thought of buying a house. The upkeep and repairs seemed like something for dopes chasing the ever-elusive American Dream. After the divorce, he’d put that delusion out of his mind.

“Most of the painting’s already done.” Hughes had turned her attention back to her grill. “But if you want one of my famous Texas burgers, grab a roller and get to it, buddy.”

Mitch shrugged. “Eh,