Timid (Lark Cove Book 2)

by Devney Perry

  TIMID

  Copyright © 2018 by Devney Perry

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9983583-8-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editing & Proofreading:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor

  www.mybrotherseditor.net

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  www.facebook.com/jdproofs

  Kaitlyn Moodie

  www.facebook.com/KaitlynMoodieEditing

  Cover:

  Sarah Hansen © Okay Creations

  www.okaycreations.com

  Formatting:

  Champagne Book Design

  www.champagnebookdesign.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Preview from Tragic

  Acknowledgments

  Also Available from Devney Perry

  About the Author

  To Mom and Dad.

  My champions.

  “Dad, is it okay if I get two—”

  The Snickers bar in my hand slipped out of my grasp and dropped to the floor. My jaw was down there too, thanks to one glimpse at the man walking through the gas station door.

  He was, without contest, the most beautiful man in the world. No, the universe. He’d stepped straight out of my Seventeen magazine and into the Lark Cove Gas ’N’ Go.

  His golden-blond hair was buzzed short to his scalp, a cut seen regularly in the hallways of my high school because most boys in Lark Cove had their moms whip out the bathroom clippers once a month. Except nothing about this man’s haircut was boyish. On him, it was rugged. A little dangerous even. This guy couldn’t be bothered to style his hair. He had more important things to do, like bench-press cars or battle zombies or rescue kittens from treetops.

  Hidden in the candy aisle, I peered around a display of Doritos as he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler by the register. He set it on the counter and dug out a wallet from his back jeans pocket.

  “Just the water?” the clerk asked.

  The man nodded. “And the gas on pump two.”

  A shiver ran down my spine at his low, rumbling voice. He made the words gas and pump sound hot.

  The clerk punched in some numbers on the till. “Anything else?”

  The man leaned back from the counter, eyeing the row of candy bars placed below for impulse buys, then grabbed a Snickers.

  We liked the same candy. That had to mean something. Like . . . fate.

  He handed the bar to the clerk before casually leaning an elbow on the counter. His shoulders pivoted my way, enough so I could get a better look at his face but not enough he could see me spying. With a smile, he nodded to the lottery ticket machine. “I’ll take a Powerball too. Maybe it’s my lucky day.”

  My knees wobbled at that smile. Wowzah. His soft lips stretched over straight, white teeth. His sky-blue eyes brightened. The smile softened his square jaw just enough that he became a whole different kind of dangerous. It was the kind that made me want to do stupid, embarrassing things just to get a fraction of his attention. It was a smile that vaporized the two-year crush I’d had on Brendon Jacoby, my lab partner in biology.

  I couldn’t like a boy now that I’d seen this man.

  Who was he? He had to be a tourist passing through town. I’d lived in Lark Cove my entire life and never seen this guy before, which meant I’d probably never see him again.

  My stomach dropped. Doing the only thing I could think of, I closed my eyes and said a prayer that we’d get a freak July snowstorm and the man would be trapped here for at least a week, preferably without a place to stay other than my house.

  “Hey there, Jackson.” My eyes popped open as Dad walked up to the register with his hand extended. “Nice to see you again.”

  “You too.” A frenzy of excitement shot through my veins as the two shook hands. “It’s Nate, right?”

  “That’s right.” Dad smiled. “My wife, Betty, and I were down at the bar last week.”

  “For your anniversary.” Jackson snapped his fingers as he put it together.

  “Right again. Are you getting all settled into town?”

  “I am. I didn’t have much to move so it made unpacking easy.”

  Jackson said something else to Dad, but my heart was beating so hard I couldn’t focus on their conversation.

  Jackson. His name was Jackson. And he lived in Lark Cove.

  “Willa.”

  Jackson and Willa. Willa and Jackson. Our names went together like peanut butter and jelly.

  “Willa.”

  Maybe people in town would merge us into a nickname. Will-son. Jack-illa. Both were terrible, but I’d think of something better tonight.

  “Earth to Willa!”

  I flinched, my eyes whipping up. “Huh?”

  Dad shook his head and laughed. “Lost in outer space again?”

  “Yeah.” Heat crept up my cheeks as I bent to pick up my fallen Snickers. With it in hand, I came out from behind the aisle.

  “Jackson, meet my daughter.” Before Dad could finish his introduction, the clerk stole his attention, asking if he wanted his weekly scratch ticket too.

  “Hey.” Jackson waved. “I’m Jackson.”

  “I’m Willa,” I mumbled. Articulating words was impossible standing in front of him.

  “Nice to meet you, Willow.”

  “It’s, um . . . Willa.”

  But Jackson had already turned away. The clerk had his attention again, joking with both Jackson and Dad that if either won the lottery, he wanted a kickback.

  With his purchases in hand, Jackson said good-bye to Dad and went right for the door and pushed outside.

  “Ready to go?” Dad asked.

  I nodded and handed him my Snickers.

  As the clerk rang up my candy bar, Dad’s ticket, a bag of M&M’s and two cans of Coke, I peered outside, hoping to get one last glimpse of Jackson. But with the front windows stacked full of beer boxes and a rotating rack of maps blocking the only other free space, I couldn’t see anything past our car parked right outside the door.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter, willing the clerk to make change faster. Finally, he handed Dad a dollar and some coins, and I bolted for the door, stepping into the bright, summer sunshine just in time to see Jackson slide into an old Chevy truck.

  “Did you forget something, honey?” Dad appeared at my side, ha
nding me my Snickers and Coke.

  “Whoopsie. Sorry, Dad.”

  He just laughed. “It’s okay.”

  I took my things, then slowly walked toward our car, keeping one eye on Jackson’s truck as it pulled onto the highway. When it disappeared behind a patch of trees, I sighed and resumed normal speed, opening the passenger door and sliding inside.

  Luckily for me, Dad didn’t comment on my strange behavior. He just popped the top on his Coke, took a sip and backed us out of the parking lot to go home.

  “Um, Dad? Who was that?”

  He pulled onto the highway, going the opposite direction of where Jackson had turned. “Who was who?”

  “That guy you introduced me to in the gas station. I haven’t seen him around before.” I added that last part hoping I sounded more curious than desperate for information.

  “That’s Jackson Page. He just moved to town to work with Hazel down at the bar. I think he’s from New York or New Jersey. I can’t remember.”

  “That’s good.” More like freaking fantastic.

  Dad gave me a sideways glance. “Is it?”

  Uh-oh. Maybe I hadn’t hidden my crush as well as I’d hoped. “Totally!” It came out too loud as I scrambled for a recovery. “It’s, um, good that Hazel has some help. Don’t you think she’s kind of old to be working at the bar all by herself?”

  Dad frowned as he turned down the street toward our house. “Old? Hazel isn’t all that much older than me and your mom. But I guess teenagers think anyone past thirty is old.”

  I giggled. “Ancient. You’re practically fossils.”

  “Ouch.” He clutched his heart, pretending to be hurt as he pulled into our driveway.

  “Just kidding.”

  Dad smiled. “Try to save part of your candy bar until after dinner.”

  “Deal.” I hopped out of the car, escaping inside while Dad went to check on Mom’s progress in her vegetable garden.

  I yanked my diary out from underneath my mattress and got comfortable on my bed. Then I tore into my Snickers bar, chewing as I opened to a blank page. My pen flew across the paper, leaving a trail of purple ink as I recounted every second at the gas station. When I was done, I closed the book and clutched it to my chest, smiling at the last line I’d written.

  One day, I am going to marry Jackson Page.

  I just had to get him to notice me first.

  Nine years later . . .

  “There’s one,” I whispered, pointing toward the shooting star that streaked across the midnight sky.

  Even though I was alone, pointing them out had become a habit. My dad had been my stargazing partner for as long as I could remember. As a kid, he’d taught me about the constellations and galaxies. We’d have contests to see who could spot the most shooting stars.

  These days, he preferred to sleep at night unless there was a special stellar occasion, like a comet or a lunar eclipse. So my nights counting falling stars were done alone. I’d come out to the playground behind my house, sit in the same swing with my eyes to the sky, then report to Dad the next morning how many I’d counted.

  Sending some wood chips flying, I kicked off the ground and got my swing moving. My hands gripped the chains as I pumped my legs for some speed. When I had my momentum built, I let my head fall back. The tips of my long, blond hair nearly touched the ground as I smiled at the Milky Way.

  Today had been a good day. No, an incredible day.

  Months ago, I’d petitioned a charitable foundation in New York to buy the Flathead Summer Camp, the children’s camp where I worked as the director. It was owned by a local church, but after years of barely covering the overhead and maintenance costs, they’d decided it was time to let it go. The church had wanted to sell it to someone who’d continue it as a camp, but with no buyers, the camp would have to be closed down permanently and the land sold off for private development.

  But kids needed that camp. They needed a place to escape for a week every summer without toys or iPads or video games. So I’d written a proposal and sent it to various charitable organizations around the country, then wished on a hundred shooting stars for a miracle.

  I still couldn’t believe my wish had come true. Earlier today, the Kendrick Foundation from New York City had agreed to buy my camp. And as a bonus, they were keeping me on as director.

  Tonight, I wasn’t wishing on falling stars. I was simply grateful.

  My swing slowed to a stop. I pulled myself upright and took in the quiet night. Behind me was Lark Cove School. Its cream cinderblock walls glowed with reflected moonlight. The school and the long playground took up the whole block, except for five houses—three straight ahead and two to the left, one of which was mine.

  My parents had never needed to build an outdoor play area. Instead, growing up, I’d just cross the invisible boundary that separated our lawn from the playground’s and use the same swing set and jungle gym that I played on during recess.

  All of the houses were dark tonight, the only light coming from across the street where a few porch lights were on. I was admiring a hanging basket of flowers when a dark figure strode onto the sidewalk.

  I gasped, nearly falling off my swing as he stepped off the cement and onto the grass.

  My fingers slipped into the right pocket of my navy sundress, palming the small canister of pepper spray Dad had bought me for nights when I came out here alone. He’d also given me the whistle I was wearing around my neck.

  I contemplated jumping off my swing and hurrying home, but stopped short.

  I knew that stride. No, that swagger.

  It belonged to the man who’d made my heart race and cheeks flush since I was seventeen.

  Jackson.

  Was he coming over here? I looked over my shoulder, expecting someone behind me, but there wasn’t.

  Forgetting the pepper spray, I used both hands to smooth down my hair. It had a natural wave that looked great for the first eight hours of the day, but somewhere between hours nine and ten, it grew exponentially in volume and frizz. With it sort of tamed, I swallowed the nerves in my throat just as Jackson stepped off the grass and into the wood chips surrounding the swings.

  “Hey, Willa.”

  Oh. My. Goodness. He’d called me by the right name. Finally! After years of correcting him each time he called me Willow, hearing my name in his deep voice gave me wings.

  Heat broke across my cheeks and I managed a breathy “Hi.”

  “Is this swing taken?”

  I shook my head.

  He grinned, then somehow fit his large frame into the small black rubber seat. His broad shoulders extended past the chains by at least five inches on each side, his jean-covered legs too long for the short seat.

  “Nice night.”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  It came out quieter than I had intended, probably because I’d stopped breathing. So I ducked my chin into a shoulder and pulled in a long breath through my nostrils, hoping he couldn’t hear me shaking.

  The chains on his swing creaked as he dug a heel into the wood chips and propelled himself backward. “It’s probably not safe for you to be out here at night.”

  “I have this whistle.” I held it up so he could see it. “And some pepper spray in my pocket.”

  “Is that what you were reaching for when you spotted me?”

  “Sorry.” Mortification crept up my face, flaming my already hot cheeks. The last thing I wanted was for Jackson Page to think I was scared of him. Well, I was scared. More like terrified. But only because I’d crushed on him for basically my entire teenage and adult life.

  “I’m just teasing you.” He chuckled. “I’m glad you have the spray. Though I’d feel even better if you were behind a locked door at night, not sitting alone in a playground.”

  I gripped the chains on my swing tighter so I couldn’t jump up and start dancing around. He was concerned about me. Me. Willa Doon, the girl who’d been trying to get his attention for nearly a decade.

 
Jackson pushed off the ground again, letting the silence of the night surround us.

  Too shy to say anything, I resumed my swinging too. The color in my face drained away in the cool rush of air. Every time Jackson swung forward and I swung back, I’d catch a whiff of his spicy scent, cloves mixed with forest moss.

  A combination that shouldn’t have smelled so good, but boy did it ever.

  “Crazy day.”

  “What?” I asked as it clicked what he was talking about. “Oh! You mean with Thea. Yeah. That was crazy.”

  Two executives from the Kendrick Foundation had flown to Montana today to check out my camp. I’d taken them on a tour and that’s when they’d agreed to buy the place and keep me on as director. To celebrate, I’d taken them down to the bar for a drink.

  The Lark Cove Bar was where Jackson had worked for years alongside his childhood friend, Thea. I’d gotten to know Thea and her five-year-old daughter, Charlie, over the years. They were awesome, but I’d never had the courage to ask about Charlie’s father.

  It turns out, I hadn’t needed to ask. I’d had a front-row seat as Thea had dropped the bomb of a lifetime on one of the executives I’d brought to the bar.

  Logan Kendrick, the chairman of the foundation and now my boss, had met Thea years ago in the city. I hadn’t gotten the dirty details, but I’d deduced from the show that they’d hooked up without sharing important info, like last names or phone numbers. She’d gotten pregnant and come to Montana as a single mom. He’d come out today to buy a camp and gotten a daughter as a bonus.

  It was the biggest drama we’d had in Lark Cove in ages.

  “How is Thea doing?” I asked.

  “I dunno.” He went back to his swinging.

  I pushed off the ground, swinging back and forth too, stealing glances at Jackson as our swings crossed at the bottom.

  That was the story of my life, watching Jackson Page. It sounded like the title for a made-for-TV movie.

  I’d been watching him for years, ever since the first day I’d seen him.

  As a teenager, I’d search for him or his truck everywhere. Occasionally, I’d see him at the gas station filling up. Or sometimes I’d spot him at the town grocery store or eating at Bob’s Diner. There weren’t a lot of places to go in Lark Cove, and since he didn’t go to our church and had no reason to come to my school, I’d been forced to settle for chaste glimpses every month or so.