by Nicole Snow
“No, but it’s bought us time.” She frowns, tapping her fingers along her lower lip, then curling them under her chin. “I don’t know yet, Alaska. There are a lot of things I have to think about.”
Me too.
Like wondering what would’ve happened if we hadn’t banked time.
Who’s running the clock? What the hell’s she counting down to?
“You want to let me know what you’re thinking?” I prop an elbow against a shelf, leaning on it. “Maybe bounce some ideas off me—”
“Nononono—”
I’m not expecting the panicked way she reaches for me, eyes wide, soft hands grasping at my upper arm and tugging me away from the shelf.
I jerk back, glancing at the bags of beans—did I almost knock them over?
“Uh,” I grunt. “Sorry?”
“No, no, I just...”
She’s still touching me as she freezes.
Hands curled around my bicep, warmth soaking into my skin, her bright eyes staring.
Then she jerks, skittering backward till her ass touches the shelves against the far wall, putting as much distance between us as possible.
Her eyes fall to her feet. Her hands tuck behind her back. Her face glows, dangerously fetching red.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “The shelves are just—the last time I had to rebuild this place, it was on a budget. The shelves are cheap particle board on pegs. And you’re kinda heavy.”
There’s something about the way she says you’re kinda heavy that splatters my thoughts like a paintball volley hitting canvas.
Fuck, would I be too heavy for her if we if—
Stop.
Breathe in, breathe out, let go.
Good luck. I can’t shake off feeling her hand against my skin.
“No big deal,” I say, leaning against the wall next to the door instead. “I’m not here to cause damage. Just trying to help.”
“...yeah. About that.” Wincing, she looks away, rubbing a hand to the back of her neck. “I was looking at the police report from my dad’s death. It has a lot of details I didn’t quite process the first time I saw it. Back then, I was still in shock after he...you know.” She trails off with a shaky breath, finding her words to continue. “There were unknown fingerprints all over Dad’s car. On the steering wheel, the seat belt.”
Seat belt? That reminds me.
“I meant to tell you,” I say. “Remember the shots of the cockpit from your dad’s plane?”
“Yeah.”
“Notice anything weird inside?”
She frowns, tilting her head. “I can’t remember off the top of my head.”
“The seat belt was unfastened,” I point out. “Now, no offense, but your dad doesn’t sound like someone who’d have the presence of mind to unfasten his belt and bust a window out as he was crashing and drowning simultaneously.”
She blinks at me.
“Most SEALs wouldn’t even have the presence of mind to do that, and we’re trained to respond when shit gets bumpy. Not unless I’d planned it in advance and put in some major practice,” I say slowly.
“That...doesn’t surprise me. Not really. Another hint he did it deliberately, I guess. But there’s more, Alaska.” She wrinkles her brows together. “I remember there was one more witness who saw him alive—possibly the last known person to see him before he died. Flynn Bitters. He used to be the front desk clerk at the inn. He’s retired now. Holds down a stool at Brody’s most of the time, drinking away his retirement.”
Yeah, I remember that name all right.
“Bitters, your dad’s old drinking buddy?”
Felicity starts. “How’d you know that?”
Now, it’s my turn to look away, dragging a hand through my hair and clearing my throat.
“The guys were messing with me after work one night. About you and half the town thinking we’re a thing. Holt got shitfaced and loose-lipped. He was babbling on about when you moved here, giving him a black eye when you were little, and he mentioned your dad and how the rumors about you aren’t true.”
“O-oh.” She makes a strangled, embarrassed sound, then huffs, folding her arms over her chest. “He was looking up my skirt! He deserved it.”
“I think even he agrees.” I chuckle. “But listen, about this Bitters guy—maybe we should try talking to him?”
“You keep saying ‘we.’” She shakes her head. “You can’t keep taking on my problems. I should be the one to—”
“No. My turn. Until we’re sure Gavin’s not coming around snooping again, it’s my problem too. I’m trying to make sure he stays the hell away from you.”
“Is he...?”
“He’s out, yeah,” I say grimly. “As far as I know, he packed up and took off out of town like his ass was on fire.”
“Good riddance.” She eyes my face. “I could think of someone else who deserves a black eye, and it’s not you.”
I grin. “You gonna knock Gavin’s lights out for me, Fliss? My valiant defender.”
“Oh, stop.” She pushes a giggle back into her mouth.
“Whatever. I’ll behave. Long as you’ll let me come with to talk to Bitters.”
“I...” Her shoulders slump. “Okay. Fine. You’re probably big enough to scare him into being honest anyway, and that’s better than grouchy and defensive. He can be a mean drunk. Fair warning.”
“I thought Blake said he was clean?”
There’s a long pause as her face sinks.
“...he was. Some people stay clean. Some people don’t.”
I have a feeling she’s not just talking about Flynn Bitters.
But before I can ask, she brushes her hair back like she’s physically dusting away sour memories, and lifts her chin. “There’s one other thing we need to talk about.”
“Yeah?” I cock my head.
She looks at me like she’s staring down a dragon, blushing again. “What we’re going to do about those rumors.”
“What rumor—oh.” Uh. Fuckity. I scratch at my cheek, fingers tangling in my beard. “You mean us?”
“Yes.” She flicks her hands in a distressed, helpless gesture. “I feel like everyone’s watching us, waiting for us to hook up or—I dunno—kiss in public? It’s kinda hard to be sneaky with that going on and too many eyes on us.”
“Yee-ah.” I draw the word out, rubbing my chin. I already know she’s about to look at me like I’m crazy, possibly throw a bag of beans at my head, but hell, here goes. “Hear me out. What’s the harm if we just let ’em think it’s true? If everyone thinks we’re dating, they’ll stop watching and waiting for it to happen.”
I don’t think the noises that come out of her mouth count as English.
Or remotely human.
There’s a garbled squeak, a strangled groan, her hands fluttering like she just learned all of sign language and wants to put it to good use faster than her hands can move.
Mostly, she stares at me like she’s never heard something so ludicrous in her life.
Finally, she manages a fumbling, incredulous, “What?”
Ouch.
I keep my smile up, shrugging. “Would it be that terrible? It’s just temporary. When we don’t need the ruse anymore, we’ll let people think we naturally drifted apart and stayed friends. It’s a good distraction, and it’ll stop folks from needling us to death, asking why we’re always together.”
“I mean...”
“Look, it’s not like I’m planning to grab you and kiss you in the middle of the street.”
Even if now the thought’s cemented in my head.
Shit.
All I can think about is how it would feel to do exactly that.
Her mouth against mine, hot and willing and giving.
Her body going soft, melting against me like caramel.
The way her flesh would sink beneath my palms, all softness and hellfire—and damn.
Keep this up, and I’ll end up wishing for looser jeans.
Fliss looks at
me like I’ve lost my mind. After a minute, she glances away, scrubbing her palms against her thighs and taking a rough breath.
She’s in skintight jeans tonight, paired with a pretty cashmere sweater in soft yellow, so loose it falls off one smoothly curving shoulder and clings to every line of her curves.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay. It makes sense. Being your girlfriend seems better than being the easy slut who stole the new guy from under the Vulture Squad’s noses.”
“They need better hobbies.” I suppress a growl.
“Like smuggling gold?” She offers me a weak smile. “I’d better get back out there.”
“Sure.” I push away from the wall and tug the door open, then step back to hold it for her. “Ladies first.”
“Thanks!”
As she flits past me, she stops in the doorway, one slim hand resting on her hip. She gives me a long, serious look, her blue-violet eyes dark with questions.
“Seriously, Alaska—thank you.”
Then she’s gone, catching her apron from the peg and slipping out with a bag of beans under her arm, her voice rising warm and bright as she returns to the front.
Leaving me alone, wondering what exactly she’s thanking me for.
If she’d let me, I’d do a lot more than hold a door for her.
More than I dare put into words.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully.
Eli and I round off a proper dinner with sandwiches from this shop down the street that’s started jockeying for attention, then head on home.
I put Eli to bed and settle on the sofa with a beer, this tension turning me to pure granite.
It’s too early for me to hunker down for lights out, though I tell myself I’m not waiting up for a certain someone.
I’m not fucking waiting for her. Honest.
Eli’s left his camera on the coffee table. I pick it up to put it on the charger for him—but I’m caught by the images on the screen, a thumbnail gallery I tap to enlarge.
I can’t stop myself from grinning ear to ear.
So that’s Tara, huh? She’s a sweet girl, and she’s wearing the brightest smile on her face as she somehow manages to hold a wriggling armful of feline. She’s got Mozart and another local stray, Van Gogh, together at the same time without the two of them clawing each other’s faces off.
Van Gogh’s a big, fuzzy grey thing missing the tips of both ears, chewed off in these ragged stumps that make him look charmingly grouchy. He and Mozart look like they’d rather eat dirt than be squished together like that, but neither can resist the sunny little girl fussing over them.
Guess my son can’t, either.
I page through a few more photos, lingering on Eli’s eye for lighting and detail—only to stop as the scene changes.
The Nest.
And me, coming out of the back room, looking every bit like the disgruntled beast I try to pretend I’m not.
Hell.
I hadn’t even realized he was aiming that thing at me. Probably because the entire time my eyes were on Fliss, watching her get back to work with this look on my face that leaves me flummoxed.
It’s an expression I don’t recognize.
The soft, thoughtful smile hanging on my face.
The way I’m watching her like she’s the only thing in the world deserving my attention.
How does she do it? How does she split me open without even trying?
I can’t be this—I don’t even know. Pictures don’t lie.
They’re worth a thousand words, or so the saying goes.
The shots my boy snuck of his old man are definitely worth something.
All these feelings churned up inside me like a bad-tempered volcano are there, plastered on my face, showing me a thousand truths I can’t deny. I can’t pretend they’re not there when I can see what Felicity damn Randall does to me.
She pulls on my darkness, my light, my everything, strumming me like an overgrown guitar.
And I’m starting to wonder what would happen if I gave in and tried making her sing.
If I started to pull back, if I strummed the pain out of her, leaving nothing but this beautiful melody about the girl from the coffee shop and the life she deserves.
What if I found the right spot deep in her blue-violet soul and struck gold?
13
Heart of Gold (Felicity)
Ever felt like you were going to explode?
That’s been me for the past few days.
I know. I know we’re just faking it, playing pretend, giving people something to focus on so we don’t seem suspicious running around together all the time, getting up to all kinds of weird stuff.
But suddenly everything Alaska does has meaning.
Everything he says, every glance and braising touch of his calloused hand to mine.
For the hundredth time, I know it’s not real, up in my head.
Too bad the rest of me won’t get the memo. Seems my heart just can’t comprehend a ruse.
God.
I’m a nervous wreck as I close up The Nest a little early tonight, this time for different reasons from the last time I was left shaking in my own café.
I mean, part of it’s the fact that we’re going out for “intel” tonight—and yes, I love how Alaska uses military-speak for my predicament.
Tonight’s the night we’re talking to Flynn Bitters. We’ll see if he can shed some light on this thing with Dad and the gold.
But a far bigger part of it’s knowing Alaska’s on his way to pick me up.
So maybe I drop the roll of quarters I’m holding in a loud thunk that sends my heart racing.
Maybe I knock over a stand of coffee stirrers.
Sigh.
Maybe I almost miss the timer on my latest batch of fresh-roasted beans and come annoyingly close to burning them.
It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.
...I am so not fine.
As the door swings open with a jingle, I squeak, hands clutching the roll of quarters so hard it splits open and goes fountaining all over the place in shimmering silver.
The coins clatter down and miss the open cash register, falling to the bartop, the floor.
Alaska blinks in the doorway, holding up both hands. “Whoa, Fliss, it’s just me. You’re not being robbed.”
I don’t know if I want to laugh or sob.
Another smash-and-grab heist should be what I’m worried about, after all. Paisley’s been too quiet lately, and that’s usually a sign that should make me very concerned, considering what’s at stake.
She’s stayed away for long stretches before, but only because Heart’s Edge became a hotbed of federal agents and special investigators during its other drama.
That grace period is over. The tiger could come flying at my throat any time.
That’s not why I’m a hot mess spilling quarters everywhere, though.
I don’t know how to tell him that he’s the reason I’m so freaking jumpy.
“You okay?” he calls out, ever the gentleman.
“Sorry, and yes, peachy.”
I wish so badly that was true.
Taking the opportunity, I duck down behind the bar, hiding my face while I scrounge up the quarters. It gives me a second to breathe, to collect myself, but I’m still not ready for the shock when I straighten up.
Of course, he’s right there, his burly arms flexed as he leans on the bar. His dark eyes watch me with clear amusement. They catch the light at just the angle that makes them glow like antique lanterns.
“You sure you don’t need some help?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” I huff at him.
“Gotcha. Little prickly tonight, Fliss?”
“I’m just...” I fish out a new paper cylinder and start slotting quarters in. “Nervous. Angry. I don’t know. If Flynn’s known something about my father all this time and didn’t say anything to me, I’m not sure how to handle that.”
“Your dad might’ve told him to keep qui
et,” Alaska says gently. “Or maybe Flynn thought he was protecting you. Or there’s nothing to tell. Won’t know till we ask. So, if you’re feeling ready...”
He offers me his hand, palm up.
His calloused hands are so strong, so kind, and those thick fingers feel so inviting, resting there against the glossy lacquered wood of the bar.
“Shall we?” he asks softly.
It feels like he’s asking whether or not I’m about to drop dead.
That outstretched hand does wicked things to my heart, my head, my everything.
I can’t let myself take it.
Not when it feels like a deal with the devil.
Something terrible like letting him into my life for real.
Needing him for real.
I’m not allowed to do that.
So I just smile brightly and keep my hands busy closing out the register—the perfect excuse not to take that hand he’s offered.
“Give me one second to lock up,” I say.
“Will do.” I tell myself I’m imagining the disappointment in his eyes, on his face, before he gives me an easy smile and settles in to wait.
While I finish at the register, I ask, “Eli’s back at the cabin?”
“Up at the big house. Apparently, Ms. Wilma’s hosting a movie night to give him an excuse to hang out with Tara.” He lifts a thick brow. “Didn’t know she was in the business of playing matchmaker.”
I snort. “Then you don’t know Ms. Wilma.”
It doesn’t take long to lock the café down and rejoin Alaska in the passenger seat of his Jeep. Brody’s isn’t far, but as we drive down the headlight-dotted lane of Main, he glances at me, brows pulled together like thunderheads.
“You okay? Seems like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he says.
“I miss my dog.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. “Silly, isn’t it? I know Ember’s taking good care of him. She’s a vet partner. She probably spoils him more than I do, but it sucks when I haven’t seen enough of the doggo this past week.”
“Bring him over,” Alaska says easily. “Eli would be pumped to have an animal around. Hell, I think he’d lay claim to Mozart and Van Gogh if they didn’t belong to the Fords.”