Sweet Burn by Anne Marsh

protested. Although it certainly seemed like a possibility, given the shooting that had prompted her to take refuge in the art gallery.
    “That wasn ’ t the Strong welcome wagon, either. Someone wants you dead scared, at the very least. That ’ s the kind of stuff family should know about.”
    Clearly, he ’ d had a very different kind of family than she had.
    “You got folks, you should call them,” he continued.
    “They won ’ t care.”
    That was the God ’ s honest truth.
    “You sure about that?” he asked finally.
    “I ’ m not discussing my family.” Or giving him a laundry list of her inadequacies. He ’ d figure out the truth all on his own.
    “Uh-huh.” He scooped her up and stood, setting her back down on the chair he ’ d just vacated. It wasn ’ t as much fun sitting on her kitchen chair alone. Mack ’ s lap was way better. “How do you like your coffee?”
    Him waiting on her was silly. On the other hand, her kitchen was tiny enough that she ’ d just bump hips with him if she tried to do for herself.
    “It ’ s coffee, Mimi.” There was no missing the slow curl of amusement in his voice. “Not a lifetime commitment.”
    “There ’ s half-and-half in the fridge. Sugar ’ s on the counter.”
    He poured two cups, splashing cream into both, then brought them back one-handed, swiping her cute little pink-and-green sugar bowl from the counter on his return trip. She dumped in a tablespoon, mentally daring him to protest.
    Of course he didn ’ t leave his question alone. He was like a dog with a meaty bone, and unfortunately she was the focus of his attention. “You and your family don ’ t talk?”
    She met his gaze. So what if she and her family didn ’ t do any talking or exchange Christmas cards? That wasn ’ t something she had to make excuses for.
    “No. We cut our ties a long time ago.” So much for not discussing things.
    “You didn ’ t grow up around here.” He reached over and slid the sugar bowl neatly back into its place and then lifted her up and set her back on his lap. Apparently they weren ’ t done with this morning closeness thing. She ignored the little curl of warmth that inspired.
    “Chicago,” she admitted. His hand came around her, grabbing for his mug.
    “You ’ re a long ways from home.”
    Most days, two thousand miles didn ’ t seem like enough space. Growing up, she hadn ’ t realized how good they ’ d had it, at least financially. Money hadn ’ t been something she had to worry about then. Her female cousins had had Chicago debutante balls, while the guys had acquired golf club memberships. She squelched the little pulse of something. Relief, regret, or indigestion—it didn ’ t matter. She ’ d had her chance at that life and decided it didn ’t suit.
    “I inherited a bar,” she said, glossing over the details.
    “Your family run a lot of bars?”
    She snorted. “Hardly. They ’ re lawyers and professionals. No Hart before me ever earned less than a cool quarter million a year. Auntie Belle was the exception and clearly I follow in her footsteps.”
    He set his mug back on the table. “Auntie Belle was the original Ma?”
    His knowing her aunt wasn ’ t surprising. Plenty of people in Strong had known her aunt and the woman had been colorful. Once you met her, you didn ’ t forget her.
    “Yeah. She was also the black sheep extraordinaire in our family. My parents didn ’ t talk much about her. She ’ d send postcards from wherever she was and I used to sneak them out of the mail.”
    “She traveled a lot?”
    “She loved it. You saw the stuff in the living room. She went everywhere for years, until one day she decided to stay put in Strong.”
    “It ’ s a good place.”
    Maybe. She wasn ’ t sure she could explain to him how the good places never called her. She seemed at her best when she was in the bad places. “I never considered myself a staying put kind of person.”
    “ You travel much? ”
    She ’ d started