And he’d gone after it. Usually with single-minded intent. From the time he’d been upright, he hadn’t so much as walked but run to get what he was after—and usually, at least according to his parents, straight into trouble, as proven by the number of times he’d broken the law as a teenager. Worse yet, he’d crushed his mother and father by dropping out of college and working construction. Despite their disappointment, he’d been adept with a hammer and saw, could read architectural plans and schematics easily, and was quick to come up with innovative ideas and solutions to problems. He’d scraped and saved, borrowed and used the money he’d already inherited, a small portion of what he would someday come into, to buy forty acres of land here in the foothills of the Cascades and start his own construction company. Within a few years, he was where he was today. Self-made and proud of it.

But now everything he’d struggled for wasn’t enough.

Because of Rebecca.

That had been a mistake.

Even if it couldn’t have been avoided.

Which really got under his skin.

So now here he was, sitting in his idling Explorer, coffee getting cold in the cup holder, while he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

And contemplated what he did or did not want.

“Hell,” he muttered, and beside him, on the passenger seat, Ralph snorted as if agreeing.

James had been leaving the doctor’s office, driving home, when his mother had called. Again. Figuring he’d put her off long enough, he pulled over in the loading zone of a furniture store, took the call, and talked to her for ten minutes, answering her questions about how he was doing and asking the right ones about his sisters. He hadn’t realized until he’d disconnected and let the phone slide into the cup holder that the furniture store was across the street from the back of the hotel, where Rebecca’s white Subaru was parked in the lot.

Had that been a subconscious decision?

Picking up his cell again, he was about to punch in her number when the phone rang in his hand, and he saw the number affiliated with a Seattle TV station.

He didn’t answer and let voice mail do the honors. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he punched in Rebecca’s number.

She didn’t pick up.

He didn’t leave a message—make that another message. He’d already recorded a voice-mail request that she call him. She hadn’t. Nor had she responded to either of his two texts.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize she didn’t want to see him.

Which stung.

And which, he realized, his lips twisting bitterly, was pretty damned ironic, all things considered. But, damn, the more she rebuffed him, the more interested he became.