Intelligence and passion was sexy.

But the ball was just one night, he told himself. And Jane insisted that he needed a date, as it wouldn’t be proper to attend a black-tie ball at his own hotel without someone gorgeous on his arm.

Troy’s brow furrowed as he pictured the petite brunette who’d sat in his passenger seat staring out the window.

He’d never in a million years call her gorgeous.

He wouldn’t even describe her as pretty. But she wasn’t homely, either.

Without her glasses she might be very attractive…

He sighed, wishing he hadn’t let Jane talk him into setting him up. He hadn’t felt the need to take anyone to the ball. His brother Dillon would be there, and so far Dillon hadn’t asked anyone to be his date. Cormac was supposed to be flying in from California to see Dad and attend the ball, and Cormac wasn’t sure if he’d have a date. The only Sheenan who had a date at this point, was Brock, and he was bringing his fiancée Harley.

But you have a date now, he reminded himself, and it was the perfect date for him since Troy didn’t do long distance relationships and he wasn’t about to get involved with someone in Marietta.

Much less Marietta’s new prickly librarian.

As Troy approached the old, two story ranch house twenty-five minutes later, the SUV’s snow tires crunching gravel, snow and ice, he noticed that the house was dark except for a light downstairs in the back.

Parking in front, Troy left his bags in the truck, and headed inside. He was eager to see his brother and dad.

The front door was unlocked as always and Troy walked down the hall to the kitchen where the light was shining. Thirty year old Dillon was at the farmhouse style sink, washing dishes.

“How’s Dad tonight?” Troy asked, as Dillon caught sight of him and turned the water off.

Dillon grabbed a towel and dried his hands. “Better, now that he’s sleeping.”

“I saw your text. He had a rough day?”

“He was upset today. He wants to go to the cemetery.” Dillon paused, glanced at Troy. “See Mom’s grave.”

Troy’s forehead creased. “Mom’s not buried in town.”

“I know.”

“Her ashes are here.”

“I know.” Dillon tossed the towel onto the counter. “I told Dad that but he got all fired up, snapped at me that I was being disrespectful and to just do what he asked me to do.” He shook his head. “Hard to see him like this. He was always so tough. Now he’s like a lost little kid.”

“Or a grouchy little kid.”

Dillon smiled. “Glad you’re back. It’s good to see you.”

“Why don’t you get out of here? Go into town. I’ll sit with Dad tonight.”

“It’s getting late, and snowing pretty good.”

“It’s not even nine and you drive one badass truck. You’ll be fine.”

“You really want to get rid of me.”

“I really want you to have a break. You’ve been alone with Dad for weeks—”

“Not that long. Harley’s been coming over almost every day for a couple hours at a time and then yesterday Brock came with her and the kids and they spent the day here so I could get out, and take care of some banking and shopping. When I came home, she had dinner all made.”

“So why hasn’t Brock married her?”

“I don’t know, but I’m thinking I should nominate them Friday night for that wedding giveaway contest. Can’t think of anyone around here more deserving.”

“True,” Troy agreed. “But now, go, get out of here while you can. If you leave now, you could be at Grey’s by nine thirty, shooting the shit, playing pool, and flirting with all those girls who have a thing for you.”

“All those pretty girls in tight jeans and short skirts are looking for a husband. And I’m happy playing darts and having a beer and making out in my truck, but that’s as far as it goes. I’m not looking to settle down, and nowhere near ready to be married.”

“That makes two of us,” Troy said, before heading upstairs to the master bedroom tucked back under the steep eaves of the eighty year old cabin, the interior walls covered with paneling, to hide the rustic split log walls.

For the next two hours Troy sat by the side of his father’s bed in the house that had been home to three generations of Sheenans, and tried not to think.

Or feel.

But that was easier done if he didn’t look at his father, who was now just a frail version of himself.

Easier done if Troy had remained in San Francisco, on task in his office on the thirtieth floor in the city’s financial district, or in his sprawling home in exclusive, affluent Pacific Heights with its views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz and the Bay.

But Troy had come home, and he’d returned for this.