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that,” she added firmly.
    A chill swept through him. A month?
    Aw, hell.
    As they’d gotten Elvis set up in the garage, Sadie had asked if she could bunk with James. She often stayed at his place, preferring it over going home to her parents’ house—she and her mother got along better if they weren’t in constant contact with each other. But usually, Sadie’s trips home were a few days, a week at the most. Now he was stuck with her for only God knew how long.
    Stuck with having her underfoot. With her warm smiles and nonstop chatter and the way she hummed all the freaking time. With her floral scent following him from room to room, with her barefoot in his kitchen, using every clean dish he had just to make scrambled eggs and toast, her lithe body in nothing but a tank top and shorts.
    He’d be insane in two days. Three, tops.
    Something major must have happened to have her staying in Shady Grove for so long. He’d suspected that out in the driveway when she’d clung to him. Sadie wasn’t the clinging type. She didn’t let mistakes or failures slow her down, let alone get her down.
    He wanted to ask again what was going on with her, but he’d wait. He had a party to get back to and she was wet and probably cold, though she hadn’t complained. There would be plenty of time for her to tell him what was wrong. Why she’d come back.
    If she meant what she’d said about staying for a month, there would be plenty of time for him, too. Time for him to get used to having her around again. And to prepare himself for when she left.
    He stepped to the door, held on to the handle. “I’ll let you get cleaned up. Towels are in there,” he said, nodding toward the narrow linen closet to his left. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
    She stopped him with a hand to his forearm, her long fingers cold, her short nails painted a sparkly dark blue. “Thanks, James. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, her voice soft and unsteady, her gaze sincere. “You’re a good guy and a really good friend.”
    Unable to speak, he nodded, forcing his lips into the semblance of a grin. It wasn’t until he’d slipped into the bedroom and shut the bathroom door behind him that he let his mouth flatten. He tipped his head back and exhaled heavily.
    A good friend. That was all he’d ever been to her. All he ever would be.
    It was his own damn fault he wanted so much more.

CHAPTER THREE
    C HARLOTTE E LLISON HAD a life plan.
    She’d thought this through in its entirety, had weighed the pros and cons, dissected each aspect, considered all the consequences and any and every possible outcome. This wasn’t some flighty whim of fancy or a childish fantasy. This was real. Important. Possibly the most important thing she’d ever done.
    She applied soft brown eyeliner in the small bathroom off the Montesanos’ kitchen, capped the liner and tossed it into her small makeup bag. Leaning over the sink, she swiped on mascara. She was nothing if not pragmatic. Realistic. Centered and grounded. From the time she was sixteen she’d known exactly what she’d wanted out of life. She’d written it down, then had broken those goals into smaller, manageable steps—just like all the gurus preached. Over the years she’d changed or adjusted those steps accordingly.
    She’d already achieved so much. Valedictorian of her high school class? Check. Admitted to the University of Pittsburgh’s school of nursing, graduate at the top of that class and gain employment at Shady Grove Memorial? Check, check and check. Buy her dream home by the time she was twenty-five? She had her eye on an adorable 1920s cottage that had an awesome kitchen, a view of the river and plenty of potential for the extra bedrooms and playroom she’d need once she had her three kids.
    A boy and two girls—God willing—all twenty to twenty-four months apart, the first coming along sometime between Char’s thirtieth and thirty-second