by Katy Paige
“No,” Zoë whispered. “He doesn’t know it’s me.”
“Then I predict him gettin’ hurt. He deserves to know who you are,” Maggie had said, taking a little paper sack from the countertop. “When exactly is that goin’ to happen?”
“Soon. Tomorrow.”
“This is real to him. Tell him tonight.”
“I-I can’t. Please.”
“Tonight.”
“I can’t yet,” whispered Zoë fiercely, holding her ground with strength she didn’t know she had. “It’s real to me too. I don’t want to lose him.”
Maggie’s hard green eyes searched Zoë’s face and seemed to soften slightly as she digested Zoë’s whispered words. “He’s been happier these last few weeks than I’ve ever seen him. Ever.”
“Me too,” whispered Zoë, feeling miserable as Maggie assessed her with a frank, worried face.
“I shouldn’t believe you.”
“Please,” Zoë pleaded, her voice shaky with emotion.
“All right. But soon and no mistake, lass,” said Maggie finally, picking up a scone with tongs and putting it into a small paper bag. She faced Zoë, her eyes slightly narrowed and lips pursed. “And if you don’t, I will.”
Zoë had nodded slightly then looked away, her face flaming with heat, the temporary reprieve making her shoulders sag with relief. Maggie handed her the paper bag then turned without another word, heading back to the table where Paul and Graham waited for them.
Whether it was the way her plan to spill the beans had been derailed by their first meeting over Cleo’s mishap or the pure wonderfulness that was Paul or the way Maggie had just verbally bitch-slapped her, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she needed to get out of the Prairie Dawn before she burst into tears and embarrassed herself. The lump in her throat was relentless and painful and she clenched her jaw trying to distract herself from the pooling tears. She needed to run back to her inn, hide under her covers and cry for an hour. Maybe call Sandy for a pep talk and then decide how she was going to tell Paul the truth tomorrow.
So, she’d said a hasty goodbye to Paul, then turned around and ran out of the homey little café.
Zoë was good at running away and hiding. In little and big ways, she’d been running away and hiding for a couple of years now—
“Zoë! ZOË! Wait up!”
Being chased, however, was something new.
***
Paul called to her, but she didn’t slow down.
If anything, she seemed to move faster, making it to the bridge as he finally caught up with her.
“Zoë!” he panted. “Wait! Why’d you leave? Why are you running home? What’s going on?”
She looked up at him and despite the rain, he could tell in an instant that she was crying. She turned away, taking a step toward the railing of the bridge and holding the slick metal in her hands as her chest heaved up and down.
He stepped toward her, putting his hand gently on her back. “Hey…”
Before he could get out another word, she spun into his arms, resting her cheek on his chest. He could feel the shudders shaking her back, the deep, heavy sobs of someone who felt intense sorrow. Instinct took over. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his body, instinctually offering her whatever comfort he could.
Her small body leaned into his, and it made him wonder again about this strange, vulnerable, injured girl. This brave girl who saved dogs and was a good listener and had scars on her face. He couldn’t seem to help himself from wanting to protect her, take care of her, learn the secrets behind her sad eyes. Why did he feel such a strong, insistent pull to her? And what did it mean?
Determined not to overthink the act of comforting another human being in pain, he clasped her more closely, reaching up with one hand to gently brush the wet hair back from her temples in a soothing, monotonous motion. He didn’t know how long they stood like that in the dim light of the evening while the rained soaked them and the Yellowstone River rushed black below them, but he knew that if she had needed him to, he would have gladly stayed all night.
Finally she drew back, using her fingers and palms to swipe away the raindrops and tears under her eyes and on her cheeks. Paul looked down at her, at the dark, sad eyes that still glistened with tears.
He took a deep breath, knowing it was time to loosen his grip and let go of her, but he was distracted by the scent of honeysuckle…and just like that, the world melted away and he couldn’t think of anything but the girl in his arms.
He closed his eyes, lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
***
One minute she’d been trying to get back to her inn as fast as possible, and the next moment she was in Paul’s arms, sobbing against his chest, taking advantage of his solid warmth.
The crying had been about everything: losing her mother, the accident, Brandon’s legs, her own injuries, falling out with Thea, pretending to be Holly, falling in love with Paul, knowing that he felt something real for Zoë, and the terrible inevitability of having to tell him the truth and how much it could potentially hurt him when she did.
Everything was a mess and she couldn’t figure out how to unravel it all into order and sense and goodness. So, she cried. Her shoulders trembled as he ran his hands gently, soothingly up and down her back, before brushing her hair from her face. Eventually the slow, languorous movements made her tired, burning eyes heavy and she took a few deep breaths as her tears tapered off.
She stepped back from Paul, swiping away the tears under her eyes with her fingers, she’d raised her gaze to his. The soft glow of the street lamp in the rain caught the light blue of his eyes. The rain beat down harder and it felt like waking up inside of a dream—like whatever happened next, it wouldn’t actually be real.
And in that moment, she forgot about Holly and Zoë and Zoë Holly, about the internet and lies and Maggie’s sharp assessment of her willful deception. She forgot about Mystic and Montana and legs that limped and hair dyed black and heartbreaking tattoos of little lambs with all four legs intact. She couldn’t see beyond the man holding her.
When he closed his eyes and lowered his lips to hers, it was all she could do to keep from fainting.
***
He caught her lower lip between his, just as he’d wanted to every time she’d bitten it that afternoon and evening. Shivers sluiced up his arms as he moved his hands from her damp back to her face, pressing his palms against her slick cheeks, the tips of his fingers threading through her wet black hair.
Zoë moaned into his mouth and the sound was like liquid heat in his veins, racing through his body until it reached his heart, setting it on fire, making it hammer as his feverish blood shot down past his waist. He pulled her closer, parting the pliant seam of her lips with his tongue, tilting his head to better fit his mouth flush over hers.
She flattened her hands on his chest as he explored her liquid heat, swirling his tongue around hers and groaning as she stepped into him, pressing her belly into his hips.
He wanted to touch her—all of her—to slide his hands under her shirt and feel the softness of her skin. Drawing his fingers from her hair, one of them gently tracing the scar that ran from her hairline to—
“Paul, wait—” she murmured, her voice breathy and overwhelmed.
She pulled back from him, dropping her chin so that his lips grazed her forehead.
His chest moved up and down as he panted, acutely aware of her hands on his chest, of her fingers moving slightly with every shallow breath, gently molding over his muscles. He looked down at her little fingers and the reality of what he’d just done broadsided him like a sucker punch. His fingers, still on her face, trembled, and he dropped them silently, stepping back from her.
“Zoë. My God, I’m so—I don’t know why I did that…I—I don’t know what to say.”
There was no doubt in his mind who had started that kiss. It was his fault and his alone. She had been vulnerable—crying and sad—and it had
bothered him so much, he’d wanted to give her whatever comfort he could offer. But to take advantage of such a moment. He swallowed painfully, furrowing his brows in shame, daring to look at her.
“It’s…it’s okay.” Her eyes looked stricken, but not in the same way they had a few minutes ago, and he realized, with some small consolation, that they didn’t look hopeless anymore. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”
He didn’t know how to take her words. Was she just being kind to him by trying to smooth over the awkwardness of his actions? Or was she actually worried he regretted kissing her?
“I’m not,” he answered softly without thinking.
The muscles in her face relaxed and she exhaled, taking a deep breath and putting out her hand. He took it, silently, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked the rest of the way across the bridge.
***
They didn’t say another word to each other on the short walk back to Zoë’s inn. He didn’t ask her why she’d been crying and she didn’t ask him why he had kissed her. They both seemed to understand that there wasn’t room for such questions right now, nor space for the answers, which would further muddy the waters between them.
Zoë needed to clear her head and figure out what she should do next. And that couldn’t happen while she was within touching distance of Paul.
As they neared the front porch of the Mountain View Inn, Paul spoke softly, his voice laced with regret. “Zoë, I—”
“I know you’re with Holly,” she said quickly. “I know that. But I’m only here for a few days and I’d like to spend time with you. We don’t—I mean, we won’t kiss again. We can just chalk that up to an emotional moment, okay? But, I just—I like being around you.” They stopped under a streetlight and she shrugged, looking down at their hands, which were still clasped intimately together. Did he realize they were still holding hands? “Please don’t cancel coming to the falls tomorrow.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Then he reached up and tucked a piece of damp black hair behind her ear, looking at her tenderly.
“We’re both taken,” he said softly. “Both with someone else.”
She bit her lip and dropped her eyes, unable to speak, almost unable to bear the irony that they were, in fact, taken by each other.
“Come to the falls,” she whispered.
He was staring at her lips with a fierceness that she could see, but couldn’t necessarily explain. Finally, he sighed, long and hard, looking over her shoulder at the Mountain View Inn porch, then shaking his head back and forth as if in surrender. His lips—the lips she could still feel on hers—tilted up in a small smile.
“I’ll come get you at nine,” he said, dropping her hand. “’Night, Zoë.”
Relief.
“Good night, Paul,” she whispered, watching him turn and walk away.
Exhaling a ragged breath, she hurried up the porch stairs, opening the door of the inn and going directly to her room. She threw the key on the antique desk beside the door with a clatter, running her hands through her hair. She paced the room once, then twice, before peeling off her wet sweater and sitting down slowly, disbelievingly, on the edge of the bed.
“Oh, my,” she whispered, laying back on the bed as tears pooled in her eyes.
Staring at the ceiling, she allowed herself, just for a moment, to relive their kiss.
His lips had been warm and soft on hers, stealing her breath as he moved them gently, then more insistently against hers. But truth be told, it was the way he’d touched her scar that had stolen her heart. He didn’t avoid it, this ugly part of her. No. He went out of his way to connect with it. Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes at the thought of such tenderness, but shame arrived quickly on its heels. Guilt and shame in equal shares.
“What a mess,” she sighed.
Her original plan was to walk to his house, knock on his door and tell him the truth.
She was so derailed from that plan now, she didn’t have a clue of how to get back on track.
Fix this, Zoë, before it’s too late.
Walk to his house. Knock on the door. Tell him the truth.
It’s just as good a plan now as it was five hours ago. Just do it.
The voice in her head was firm and reasonable, and she gravitated toward it. Maybe he’d even feel softer about everything since they’d already had a chance to connect a little bit. She sighed, sitting up and wiping the tears away. She was strong. She had the courage to do this.
She slipped her shoes back on and went into the bathroom to brush her damp hair into a ponytail, giving herself a quick pep talk before heading for the door.
Hearing the knock from outside was the last thing she expected. Her pulse raced and her heart leaped, imagining it was Paul. But when she opened the door, she was surprised to find Maggie standing on the other side.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“I was just going to—um, sure.” Zoë stepped back to let Maggie in the room.
Maggie walked over to the windows and peeked outside at the street below.
“Never been in here,” she said lightly, giving Zoë a half smile before sitting in the wingback chair. “It’s cozy.”
Zoë closed the door and sat down on the bed across from Maggie, her nerves shot. Was Maggie here to tell her that she’d already gone to Paul?
“When you ran out,” said Maggie, “it upset him.”
Zoë swallowed, staring at Maggie, not knowing what to say.
“It occurred to me after you left that I didn’t give you a chance to explain anythin’. Called you a liar. Threatened you. Tried to boss you around.” She flinched, looking down at her hands before raising her gaze again. “I’m sorry. You have to understand. I love him. Like a brother or a cousin. I’m certainly closer to Paul than Graham. Can’t see him hurt and know I did nothin’ to stop it.”
Zoë leaned forward. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“If your name’s Zoë Holly Flannigan, where’d the surname Morgan come from?”
“It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“Holly Morgan. I see.” Maggie nodded. “What about the hair? Your eyes? That scar on your face? You look very different, Zoë. Like a totally different person.”
“I opened that account two years ago. About a week later, I was in a terrible accident, and everything changed. Someone I love very much was hurt. I was hurt.”
Zoë took a deep breath, biting back her tears. Slowly, she pulled on the fabric of her skirt, bunching it up around her thighs until her right leg, with its twisted, purple, mangled flesh, was on full display.
Maggie gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
“What happened to you?”
“My car was run off the road. My nephew was in the back. He was only four. He lost both of his legs. They were…crushed.”
“I’m sorry,” said Maggie, her eyes soft with sympathy.
Zoë was grateful for her kindness and hated it simultaneously. She pushed her skirt back down, smoothing her hands over her lap.
“Everything changed in the blink of an eye. I felt dark inside, and changed my looks to match. I don’t work as a teacher anymore. I barely see my sister; she can’t stand the sight of me. When you—” Zoë’s voice broke and she bit her lip, composing herself before continuing. “When you wrote to me and told me about Paul, it was like—it was like the sun coming out after two years of darkness. And then I met him, and he was just so—so wonderful. I almost told him several times: I’m not the girl in the picture anymore. But I couldn’t do it.
“Maybe I was living in a fantasy, but the plan was for him to come home for Christmas, and I knew I could look more like my old self by then. My hair would have grown out to shoulder-length and I could have dyed it back to my natural shade of blonde. I could take out these—” She extended her eye open between her thumb and forefinger and took out one of the brown contacts, balancing it on the pad of her forefinger. “—and be blue-eyed again. By then, I would
have had my final facial surgery—it’s scheduled for October—and the scars would have been mostly healed by December. I would’ve looked like the picture by Christmas when he came home to see his family.”
She placed her contact lens in the case on the bedside table, followed by its mate, and then she clicked the container carefully shut.
“But he decided to visit you in October instead,” said Maggie from her chair in the corner, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Yes. And I knew…” Zoë took a deep breath before turning to face Maggie. “I knew if he came to Mystic and found Zoë instead of Holly, he’d turn around and go home. He wouldn’t forgive me for lying to him, for deceiving him. But I thought if I came here and told him the truth to his face, he’d have no choice but to listen.
“I walked over to his house this afternoon, intending to tell him everything, but his dog almost got hit by a car, and I lost my nerve, and the whole—”
“I see,” said Maggie.
“I never meant for it to get this far.”
Maggie didn’t say anything, just stared at Zoë, as though trying to decide if she believed her story or not.
“Every day I told myself to be honest with him. But he was so wonderful. My life had been so awful and then suddenly here’s this man dropped into my lap.” Zoë looked down, smiling at her hands on her lap. “And he’s funny and kind and he’s everything I ever wanted. He makes me want to be the girl from the picture again. He helped me to remember who she was—who I was before my life was torn apart. He’s already made my life so much better and brighter and…” She looked up, meeting Maggie’s softening eyes. “I fell in love with him, Maggie.”
“I can see that,” said Maggie. “The problem is, I think he’s in love with Holly.”
“I know. He told me.”
“He told you?”
“Mmm. We talked about Holly tonight as we were walking to your café.”
“That must have been…bizarre.”
“It was.”
“And…I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but it appears that he has feelings for you, too. For Zoë,” said Maggie, deliberately, raising an eyebrow.