Page 3 of Sweet Obsession
Her words made Carol chuckle softly. The woman was the best employee Jillian had ever had. “Take your time.”
With another wave and a smile, Jillian was out the door and strolling down Main Street. Honeysuckle was in its usual weekday rhythm–familiar faces nodding greetings, tourists happily laden with packages from their souvenir purchases or joining the locals in a casual game of corn hole at the park. Despite the feel of the warm Texas sun on her face and the joyful smiles of everyone she encountered, the weight of the ranch situation sat heavily on her shoulders. Four siblings married, four trust fund payments secured, and now it was her turn to contribute to the plan to save the ranch. Something she wouldgladly do, except she’d had zero success so far finding a husband willing to enter into a business only marriage, especially one with the Sweet family’s particular requirements.
Taking a seat at the edge of the park, she hoped watching the children playing gleefully on the swings would help ease the growing anxiety that gnawed at her stomach. Peeling the wrapper away from her lunch, she let the warmth of the day and the sound of laughter, both from the children in the park and the group of older men across the way engaged in a lively game of corn hole, strip away some of the stress.
For a long moment, it seemed to be working. Her gaze wandered up Elm Street. This older section of Honeysuckle was one of her favorites. The side streets held charming houses ranging from cozy craftsman bungalows to larger Victorian homes. Elm Street was her favorite. A burst of colorful flowers decorated every home. She especially liked the fuchsia blooms from Mrs. Kirby’s Chinese fringe flowers. Mrs. Carrington had wonderful arrays of cornflowers and black-eyed susans, but even Mrs. Dorman’s clusters of hydrangeas couldn’t compete with Mrs. Kirby’s green thumb.
About to return her attention to the old men cheering like a couple of kids at a Friday night football game, a lone figure making its way up the street caught her eye. Not that anyone walking up Elm Street would be unusual, but this man was not typical. His hands in his pockets, head hanging low, and wearing a fully extended dark hoodie—in this heat? The guy stood out like a cowboy in Manhattan. Hunched the way he was, he seemed to be trying to fold into himself, hide from the world.
Everyone was entitled to a need for privacy or a little solitude, unless the reason he was skulking about from house to house in the shadows of the street was because he was up to no good.
Pushing to her feet, Jillian moved casually toward the curb, her gaze remaining fixed on the figure now turning off the sidewalk and crossing the line of flowers in Mrs. Kirby’s front yard. Every instinct she had told her this was a crime waiting to happen. Pulling her phone out of from her pocket, she inched her way up Elm Street. Keeping her back to the wall of the old pharmacy, she dialed the sheriff’s office. One ring, two rings. At the end of the brick building, she had a clear view of the man fiddling with the windows on the front porch of Mrs. Kirby’s house. A break-in. In broad daylight. In Honeysuckle.
“Honeysuckle police,” Madge’s voice came over the phone loud a clear. A little too loud.
Lowering her voice, Jillian quickly explained she was tracking a burglar on Elm Street.
“There’s probably a good reason, but just in case, you stay put and out of sight. I’ll dispatch the sheriff,” Madge said.
Before Jillian could agree or disagree, the call was disconnected. All she could think was what if Mrs. Kirby was inside? Alone? Defenseless? Jillian glanced over her shoulder—no sign of the sheriff. Redirecting her gaze up the street, the character in the hoodie had gone up the side yard and disappeared from sight. Not a good sign.
It took her all of five seconds to decide, sheriff or no sheriff, she could not let anything happen to sweet Sara Kirby. That old woman was a staple of good cheer around town. Jillian still could not stand by and do nothing. Clutching her purse in front of her, she moved at a slightly faster clip up the street and thanked heaven the intruder hadn’t shut the front gate. The last thing she wanted was for the dumb thing to creak and announce her arrival.
Scurrying across the short front yard, she leaned into one of those beautiful shrubs she so admired and peered around thecorner. Son of a… two sneaker clad feet attached to a pair of dark jeans, dangled from a side window. Definitely up to no good.
Blake muttered a curse under his breath, his fingers fumbling with the stubborn window latch. He should be on a private jet to Fiji right now, decompressing from the tour, not trying to break into his own grandmother’s house like a second-rate cat burglar. He ran the conversation with his mother through his mind for the tenth time. “Grams is fine, Blake, just a little more forgetful these days.”
Forgetful was one thing. Wishing him a happy birthday months early and thinking it was afternoon at four in the morning was something else entirely. He’d seen the subtle decline in one of his bandmate’s parents, the early stages of dementia that everyone tried to dismiss as simple old age. He had to see for himself, know for himself. He couldn’t shake the image of his feisty, independent grandmother alone and confused.
He’d driven straight through from the Dallas airport, his nerves shot, his patience frayed. He’d parked a few blocks away. In an effort to avoid being recognized, he’d decided a dark hoodie was the best option for slipping in and out of town unnoticed. The problem: he’d forgotten how merciless the hot Texas sun could be. In the heat, the dang hoodie had become his own personal sauna. Sweat had trickled down his back like the mighty Mississippi, but he couldn’t risk taking it off. Not in Honeysuckle. The moment someone recognized him, Iris Hathaway would have the gossip spread from here to Austin before he could blink.
With every step, he’d scanned the quiet streets. Even his mother didn’t have a clue he was here. Didn’t know he’dcanceled three meetings to make this trip. If his mom was right and his grandmother was merely momentarily forgetful, then he’d slip out of town the same way he came in. No fuss, no fans, no explanations. But deep down, he didn’t believe that or he wouldn’t be suffering through this cloak-and-dagger effort in the sweltering heat to check for himself.
But first, he had to find her. The problem: where the heck was the old woman? Her car wasn’t in the driveway, and she wasn’t answering her phone. He couldn’t exactly wander around Main Street waiting for her to come home. Not without being spotted.
The charming houses of Elm Street with their vibrant flower gardens would normally have brought back fond memories, but today they just made his mission more complicated. Too many nosy neighbors. Too many windows. Too many eyes that might recognize the prodigal son of Honeysuckle, even with his face hidden.
He approached his grandmother’s house from the side, staying close to the flowering shrubs that had always been her pride and joy. The fuchsia blooms of her Chinese fringe flowers were as bright as ever. At least that hadn’t changed.
Blake tried the front door first—locked. Then the back—also locked. Good for her, but inconvenient for him. He moved methodically around the house, checking each window, giving them gentle pushes.
“Come on, Grams,” he whispered. His fingers found the sill of the side window, hidden behind an enormous hydrangea bush. He pushed upward, and to his relief, it slid open with a soft creak.
“Aha! Finally.” A smile crept across his face. “Really need to talk to her about home security, though.”
He hoisted himself up, grabbing the windowsill and pushing the screen in carefully. The movement caused his hood to fallback slightly, and he quickly tugged it forward again. He’d come this far without being recognized; he wasn’t about to blow it now.
Getting through the window was more challenging than he remembered from his teenage years. His legs dangled awkwardly as he worked to get his upper body through the opening. The smell of his grandmother’s house—lemon polish and cinnamon—brought a wave of nostalgia so strong it almost made him pause midway. Lifting his gaze, he scanned the familiar living room—doilies, photos of him at every awkward stage of life. This had once been his safe place. Before the fame, before the crowds, before the constant scrutiny. When he was just Blake, the kid who played guitar on the porch while his grandmother Sara hummed along and shelled peas.
Stomach balancing precariously, sucking in a fortifying breath, he gripped the sill and swung one leg over. Halfway in, still bent awkwardly at the waist, the unwanted sound of footsteps approaching from outside sent him scurrying the rest of the way into the house, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood floor.
Somehow, he knew it was not his grandmother. His suspicions confirmed when a soft but determined voice, a decidedly sharp and feminine voice, sliced through the quiet.
“Stop right there or I’ll shoot!”
Chapter Three
“Jillian Sweet, what in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”
