When he was a kid, he’d been a little troublemaker—snipping off the pigtails that little girl had worked so hard to grow. Mrs. Zimmerman had been furious, ready to give him a good scolding, but it was the girl herself who pleaded on his behalf. She’d insisted it didn’t matter; she was pretty enough that even losing her pigtails wouldn’t make a difference. She wasn’t upset at all.
She was such a sweet, clever little thing. He’d always spoiled her like a kid sister—until, sadly, she disappeared one day.
Vince’s enthusiasm for Jessica probably stemmed from the fact that her gentle nature reminded him of his own little sister.
Yates took a drag from his cigarette just as Timothy arrived. “Why aren’t you inside?”
Yates raised his hand, cigarette pinched between his fingers. “Didn’t you see I’m out here smoking? Want one?”
He pulled out his pack, shook one loose, and offered it to Timothy.
Timothy took it.
The night was seductive, the outdoor lights casting a dim glow. Two striking, distinguished men stood cloaked in pale blue smoke—a sight for sore eyes.
“You know, Timothy, I’ve noticed you seem to have a soft spot for gentle girls.”
Timothy blew out a stream of smoke, his sharp brows arching, voice cool. “Do I?”
“When we were kids, you were pretty fond of Vince’s little sister. Remember when we played house? You even dragged her over to divorce me. Forgotten that?”
“That was ages ago. Does it even count?”
Yates smirked. “Maybe not as kids. But what about Sheila later on?”
Sheila had been raised as a proper lady in the Howard family, her personality mild and refined.
Still, Yates thought, that was all learned. Vince’s little sister—she’d been a natural from the start, soft through and through.
“There’s no point dwelling on the past.”
Timothy’s eyes were cool, betraying little emotion.
“If the distant past doesn’t count, and the recent past doesn’t matter, then what about now?”
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