“It’s complicated.” I inched toward him, but he threw up a hand to keep me at a distance.
“Once a cheater, always a cheater.” Disgust made his voice unrecognizable. The ache in my chest continued to grow, like a bubble about to burst.
“It’s not cheating when we’re just friends.” I waited for the anger to arrive, surprised when it didn’t.
“Don’t.” He narrowed his eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing. That guy is nothing but trouble.”
“You need to go before one of us says something we both regret.” I kept my voice as quiet as I could muster when every fiber in my body wanted to defend Owen. “You’re upset, and I get that. You wanted casual, and that’s what you got.”
“I had hoped things might change when you moved here.”
“You say that, but you never acted that way. You never let me stay at your apartment. You never introduced me to your friends or family. Actions speak louder than words, and your actions said you weren’t serious.”
In two strides, he returned to the door, one hand on the doorknob. Once there, he faced me. I saw my reflection in the kitchen window—crazy hair, flushed cheeks, and guilty expression. “Just so you know, Lisa was never just a friend. We’ve been fucking for over a year.” With those words, he walked out the door, leaving it wide open. I pressed my lips together, biting back bitter words, knowing that I had no grounds for retaliation. His confession should have hurt more. Instead, I felt…relieved.
“He only said that because he’s pissed.” Owen’s voice sent a shiver—the good kind—up my back. He’d been balanced on the bottom step, still wearing his towel. “Not that I blame him.”
“How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough. I thought you might need backup.” He searched my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” A weight lifted from my shoulders, lessening some of the guilt. Although the situation had been unpleasant, I didn’t want to string out a dead-end relationship. Michael deserved honesty. “But I hated hurting him like that. He’s a good person.”
“I have a feeling he’ll get over it,” Owen replied, lifting one of his eyebrows. He rubbed a hand over his belly. The sight of his half-nakedness in my kitchen eased the sting of Michael’s visit. Owen trailed a fingertip along my collarbone. I sighed, wondering if morning sex was out of the question. I uncurled his fingers from the towel. The cotton fabric whispered to the floor. One corner of his lips twitched in a teasing grin.
“Let’s go upstairs.” I threaded my fingers through his and, for one fleeting moment, took control of my future.
This time, we were slow and gentle, rocking together. Being with him felt right. Good. Like we’d never been apart. His fingers threaded through mine and stretched my arms over my head. The weight of his big body pinned me to the mattress. I sighed, giving in to the beauty of this moment.
The hair on his leg abraded my thighs as he spread them wider. His lips worshipped me, touching every inch of my skin. We’d had sex all night, but this time was different. We stared into each other’s eyes as we came. And what I saw brought the sting of tears. He was there—that boy from high school, the jock, the good guy, my hero.
After a shower together, we drove Owen’s truck to the flea market. Papers and tools littered the cab. It smelled of leather, maleness, and Owen. I sat beside him, awkward and exhilarated, feeling like the teenaged girl I’d once been. Every now and then, I stole a peek at his profile, the hardness of his jawline, the way his fingers clenched around the steering wheel. The space between my legs ached from the relentless way he’d made love to me. For a brief time, I forgot that Chris was dead, Owen was a convicted murderer, and this couldn’t last. No moment had ever been more perfect.
“You okay?” He reached across the seat to hold my hand. After a lifetime of neglect, I liked the way he constantly checked on me. The sweet gesture started butterflies in my stomach. I remembered this feeling, the crazy fucked-up euphoria of being with him. I wanted it to never end.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” But nothing could have been further from the truth. I’d never be fine again. He’d twisted my world into a knot of uncertainty, one that I had no idea how to unravel.
The storms had moved through and left bright sunshine in their wake. We rode in silence with the windows down, through miles and miles of endless cornfields. Country music played on the radio. Owen hummed under his breath. I tried to concentrate on living in the moment, to enjoy the earthy scent left by the rain, and the rush of wind through my hair. I still had questions, but I didn’t want to ruin the pleasant afterglow of our night together. In my experience, happiness was a fleeting gift, and I wasn’t going to squander it.
At the flea market, we wandered through rows of booths, sometimes brushing shoulders, sending pleasant tingles down my arm. I found the chaos, the noise, and the clutter charming and regretted leaving my camera at the house. Textures and colors teased my artistic sensibilities. I snapped photos with my phone and vowed to return another day with the proper equipment. Owen hovered at my side, straying occasionally to peruse a set of tools or an interesting oddity. Every time our eyes met, I grinned like an idiot. I liked having him beside me, knowing he was with me, that we were a couple. Even if the situation was temporary. It felt like we’d traveled back in time. We were just two kids in love with a bright future ahead of us.
“Hey, look at this.” Owen pointed to a Victorian dresser. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the item. “This would make a great bathroom vanity. I could cut a hole in the top for the sink and run the plumbing through the back. It would like nice in your downstairs bathroom.”
“You think?” I tried to concentrate on the dresser, but the glide of his fingers between mine proved too distracting. “Okay.” If he’d suggested climbing the nearest tree, I would’ve agreed.
He waved to the guy running the booth. “How much do you want for this?”
An unfamiliar hand touched my arm. I turned to see Velma, the reporter, beaming at me. She had a camera slung around her neck and a notepad tucked beneath her arm. “Hey, Stella. How are you?”
“Um, I’m fine. Thanks.” My gaze went automatically to Owen. Her attention followed mine. I bit my lower lip and prayed that he wouldn’t return before I got rid of her.
“I’m here doing a little freelance work, following your example.” She lifted the camera and smirked.
“That’s a great way to get your foot in the door,” I said. The scent of barbecue hovered in the air. The crowd ebbed and flowed around us. People seemed to be closing in on me. I ran a finger around the collar of my T-shirt. “Well, it was nice to see you again.”
She stepped in front of me, still smiling. “Are you with Owen? I mean, are you guys together?”
My heart skipped a beat. She knew his name. I blinked, trying to formulate the correct answer, and decided to go with the truth. “Yeah, he’s helping me out today.”
“I’ve been asking around about him. He’s got a fascinating story. Hot ex-con goes straight. Do you think he’d let me interview him?”
“No. He’s very private.” A cold knot of dread tightened in the pit of my stomach. “Well, I’d better let you get back to your work.”
“See you around.” Her gaze burned into my back. I kept my shoulders straight and stared unseeingly at the table of garden tools in front of me.
“Who was that?” Owen asked. I grabbed his arm and turned him toward the table.
“Don’t look. She’s a journalist, and she keeps asking about you.” I picked up a hand spade, weighing it in my palm. “Something about her rubs me the wrong way.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“Am I? A couple of days ago, you were concerned about people talking, and now you’re not?” The lady next to me raised her eyebrows. I lowered my voice and pulled him out of the stream of people.
“I didn’t want people to judge you based on my history, but maybe I overreacted.” The gentle stroke of his hand
along the side of my face soothed my anxiety. The crease between his eyebrows deepened. “But if you’re uncomfortable, maybe we should go.”
Back at the house, Owen unloaded the furniture while I fixed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We ate them on the back porch, facing the river. We chatted about unimportant things like television and books. The occasional flash of his smile reminded me of how good things had been between us. During the comfortable silences between topics, I studied the changing landscape. In the distance, the metal roof of the covered bridge reflected the orange glow of the setting sun.
When he’d eaten two sandwiches, he dusted the bread crumbs from his hands and stood. “I should get going.”
A nervous tremor shook my hands. The same nagging questions continued to play on a loop through my head. What happened to Chris? Why was Owen so damn determined to bury the truth? I’d wanted to spend the day ignoring the past, but if we were going to move forward, we had to have this discussion.
“I’m not very good at talking about my feelings. You know that.” The words came slowly, sticking to my tongue. “But I loved you, Owen. More than anything. And I need to know what happened that night. We have to talk about it.”
His gaze darkened. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared down at me. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, but my insides began to quake. A mosquito buzzed near my ear. I waved it away, impatient to move forward from the pain of this moment. The somber glint in his eyes heightened my anxiety. “Maybe you need to tell me what happened.”
“What do you mean?” Panic squeezed my body.
“Your knife. The river. Chris turning up dead. What really happened, Stella? Are you protecting someone else? Lanie?”
“No. I swear.” I took his hand in mine and squeezed.
“They found your knife at the scene. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t know how it got there, but it wasn’t me. I was with you. You know that.” The blood drained from my body and pooled in my fingertips, leaving me cold. My knife had been carefully hidden. The only person who knew its location was Lanie. Lanie. I pushed aside the thought for later inspection, refusing to accept the possibility, and kept my focus on Owen. “All this time—you thought it was one of us? And you never said anything?”
Owen sank onto the porch step and rested his head in his hands. “I ran through everything that happened that night in my mind, day after day, night after night, trying to figure it out. What was I supposed to think? Everything pointed to you.”
“The detectives told me that you confessed. They said it was an open-and-shut case. Why would you admit to something you didn’t do?”
He took my hands into his and folded my fingers into his palms. “Stella, they were going to pin it on you. They had plenty of evidence. Your knife, your fingerprints, a piece of your shirt. You would have been charged with murder. They would have sent you away for life.” The pain of the days before his sentencing came rushing back to me. “I signed a plea deal. Ten years for voluntary manslaughter, no trial, and you got to walk away.”
It had been an election year. The media and the citizens of Corbett had been ecstatic to have the crime solved in such a rapid time. The sheriff and district attorney had been re-elected. Owen’s confession had tied up the events into a neat bow for the prosecution. The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. The peanut butter and jelly curdled in my stomach. His words confirmed my growing suspicions. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I had to consider Lanie as a suspect. The thought broke my heart. How could she keep something like that a secret for eighteen years?
“I begged them to let me talk to you, but everyone told me to shut up and let it go,” I said, my voice flat and mechanical. “Marianne died that day, and the shock gave Stan a heart attack. A social services lady took us straight from the police station to the children’s home in Indianapolis.” Remembering made my heart hurt. The breath left my body in an ugly gasp. I pressed a hand to my mouth and fought away the chill of painful memories. “It was the worst day of my life.”
“I know.” He swallowed, the muscles working in his throat. “Mine too.” His thumb swept over the back of my hand, comforting and familiar, lifting goose bumps on my forearms.
The enormity of what Owen had done was more than I could process. He’d taken the fall in order to save me, thinking I’d killed his brother, and loved me anyway. Tears blurred his image. I reached for him, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him to me. His muscular arms wrapped around my shoulders. I buried my face in his chest and cried. Sobs wracked my body. The world tilted when he scooped me off the steps and carried me upstairs.
He held me until I cried myself out. After the waterworks ended, he stroked my hair and pressed kisses to my forehead. Words froze in my throat. I had no idea how to undo the terrible wrong that had been done to him. When I found myself again, I sat up. “I’ll go to the police in the morning. I’ll tell them everything. We can clear your name.”
“No. You won’t.” He lowered his face to mine, eyes stormy. “It’s done. Over with. I don’t need to be vindicated.” His fingertips stroked over my cheek. “If you go to them, you’ll only incriminate yourself.”
Or I might incriminate Lanie. Loyalty to Owen warred with the need to protect my little sister. The injustice of the situation made my gut churn. I couldn’t think about Lanie now. Owen consumed me. I rained kisses over his face, knowing it was a small consolation for the lost years of his life. “You’re a fool, Owen Henry. What you did—it doesn’t make sense. You gave up everything to save me and left nothing for yourself.”
“It makes perfect sense to me. Watching you succeed was more than enough payment.” His deep voice rumbled through his chest. “Every time I saw one of your photographs, I knew it was worth it.”
“But you hated me,” I said in a small voice and curled into his side.
His chest lifted and fell in a heavy sigh. “The only way I could get over you was to hate you. And you needed to move on.”
“Do you hate me now?” I braced myself for the answer, knowing it could destroy me.
“No.” His words gave me new confidence. My heart skipped a beat when his hand moved to my belly, smoothing over my shirt before gliding under the fabric. His calloused palm slid over my bare skin, pushed aside the band of my bra, and cupped my breast. The touch of his fingers on my nipple unleashed a torrent of need.
“Owen. This. Us. It’s crazy.” A light pinch stung my nipple. I hissed through my teeth at the lightning zap of pleasure. “How could you love me when you thought I’d done something so terrible? How can you forgive me for doubting you?” How could I ever forgive myself? I had no idea how to make things right again, but I’d spend the rest of my life trying if he let me.”
“Stella, don’t you get it?” With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, he unsnapped my jeans and pulled down the zipper. I lifted my hips to help him pull down my pants and underwear. His fingers slipped between my bare thighs. “I still love you. I loved you then, and I love you now. And I’m pretty sure I’ll love you a hundred years from now. What I feel for you has nothing to do with the passage of time.”
Not loved me, in the past tense. Love. As in today. Now. My brain tried to wrap around his words, but it was hard to concentrate with his hand stroking me. His knee parted my legs as he moved on top of me. I tugged down his jeans and boxers. We explored each other, slowly and gently, savoring the subtle glide of flesh against flesh. The heat of his skin warmed me. Tomorrow, I’d have to face the many truths we’d revealed, but for tonight, I wanted to show him how much I appreciated his sacrifice. If that was even possible.
I shifted his weight, rolling us over so I could straddle his hips. Looking into his beautiful eyes, I said, “None of this makes sense, but I feel the same about you today as I did eighteen years ago.”
He lowered his thick eyelashes, shielding his gaze. “I don’t need you to love me back. I’ll love you, no matter what.”
His selflessness fill
ed me with warmth. Not only was he beautiful, but he’d managed to preserve his best qualities throughout adversity and disadvantage. I pressed a finger to his lips which he promptly sucked into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue pebbled my skin with goose bumps. “I don’t care that it’s been eighteen years or that we’re different people.” Lifting his pelvis, he slid inside me. We groaned at the delicious friction. “Can two people still love each other after so much time and so many lies?”
One of his hands cupped the back of my neck and drew my lips down to his. “Love doesn’t have rules. We can make our own.”
Twenty-Two
Stella
Present Day
The next day, the world seemed different, brighter. We laid in bed, enjoying each other, until midmorning. I wanted to believe that life could be like this, but I kept waiting for something to go wrong. Hanging out with Owen, walking along the quiet country roads, playing on the rope swing near the garden—all those things gave me hope for a better future. What if this wasn’t a dream? What if I could have this kind of happiness every day? Always, in the back of my mind, lurked memories of Chris and Lanie. I wanted to ask Owen for more details about what had really happened, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
While Owen showered, I took the opportunity to call Lanie. She sounded harried and tired. “What’s up?”
“We slept together,” I said.
“No, no, no,” she groaned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Everything.” The flood of endorphins brought about by good sex and Owen’s company glimmered through my veins. “I still love him, Lanie.”
“Shit. This is bad. I’m driving down there.” Her footsteps thundered in the background. “Let me get the kids together. I can be there in four hours. Someone needs to talk sense into you before you go off the deep end.”
“It’s too late.” I slid back the curtains of the bedroom window. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight. “He didn’t kill Chris. He took a plea deal to save me—to save us.” Lanie sucked in an audible breath. “The only reason he confessed was to keep me out of jail.” When she didn’t speak, I squeezed the bridge of my nose with thumb and forefinger, summoning patience. “Did you hear me?”
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