Chapter 13
I feel sick for the rest of the week leading up to Friday.
I’m just plain worried. I’ve come up with a host of scenarios and thought through how much devastation each one will bring to my loved ones.
None of them are great, but that’s because I’m a small-town bookseller who’s read too many detective novels and not an actual detective. My top theories are as follows:
I must admit that I came up with all these theories while talking to my imaginary dead grandmother, so I’m not doing well.
I’m not built for this level of drama. Fictional drama, yes.
Sign me up for all the intrigue, the scandal, the mystery, the murder—but have it be contained within the cover of a book.
Drama that could result in the collapse of everything my best friend holds dear?
Absolutely not. I have to figure this out, protect Jo from the fallout, destroy Andy myself if need be, and save Shayne from…
what exactly? Himself? Why do I feel so compelled to save Shayne when he could be the driving force behind all this insanity?
Could it be because the first night we met, he literally gave me - a naked freezing stranger - the coat off his back?
Or because he rescued me from the things that go bump in the night after I'd fallen off a horse?
Then again, it could just be because the mere sight of him turns me inside out.
Hopefully tonight will bring much-needed answers. The only other alternative is that I’m going to drive myself even more insane.
Jo texted me earlier to bring a bottle of wine and a fancy cheese, so I stop by La Supérette on the way home and spend my entire food allowance for the next week.
Overpriced wine and cheese in hand, it’s time to put my plan into action.
I thumb open my phone while walking to my car and send a text to Cowboy Hat Demon Horse—I really should change his name in my phone.
Can we talk at your place before dinner?
I back out of the parking lot and turn towards home. Hopefully he sees the message before I arrive for dinner, because I don’t have a plan B. I need to talk to him before Jo sees us together. Thankfully, three dots appear on my screen as I pull into my driveway.
Of course.
It’s 5:15. I have thirty minutes to shower, change, and get myself back into the car to drive to Jo’s cabin.
Thankfully, I already know what to wear.
I bought a dark brown and white print dress a while back that I haven’t had a chance to wear—mainly because I bought it for John’s and my rehearsal dinner.
I returned my wedding dress soon after we broke up, in a haze of snot and tears of course, but this dress I couldn’t bring myself to return.
I’ve tried to put it on several times since then, but it always felt too fresh, too painful.
Tonight, I’m ripping the band aid off. It’s the perfect armor because I look fantastic in it.
I’m glad I didn’t waste this dress on John.
This dress was meant for greater things than a rehearsal dinner for a wedding to the wrong man. When I confront Shayne, hopefully he’ll be distracted enough by me in the dress that he won’t want to tie me up and leave me on the side of the road for being a shoddy detective.
I don’t have time to blow-dry my hair, so I let it air-dry while I get ready.
My first thought when I look at myself in the mirror is that I look just how I feel: like an overwhelmed, exhausted spaniel.
Great! I decide to keep my makeup simple, mostly because I’m crap at it.
I brush on mascara, a bit of blush, and concealer.
A slash of red lipstick completes the look.
The result is definitely an improvement, but a week at the beach without a care in the world would have better results.
I slide the dress over my head carefully and then sit on my bed to lace up the tan, low-heeled boots I’ve chosen.
I pop in braided gold hoop earrings and then turn to take in the whole package in the full length mirror I have in the corner of my bedroom.
Man, thank all the powers that be for this dress.
The dark brown undertone of the fabric brings out the auburn color of my hair, and the graphic white daisy print makes the dress more fun and flirty than it would be otherwise.
The shape is simple, a deep square cut neckline and ruched bodice that shows off all the right curves.
The dress flares gently over my hips and hits me at mid calf.
The quarter-length bubble sleeves add more whimsy and make me feel like I should be frolicking in a field rather than attempting to put a stop to a blackmail plan.
My hair is somewhat dry, not exactly the effortless beachy waves I was hoping for, but one can only do so much.
Pulling up to Shayne’s, I see him silhouetted in the window against the glow from the inside. I close my eyes and breathe in a couple of deep breaths, but it doesn’t help. My hands are shaking, my mouth is dry. I just need to get this over with.
When I open my eyes, I see that Shayne is now leaning against the open door frame, staring at me, looking mouth-wateringly perfect per usual.
I get out of the car, smooth my dress down, and walk towards him.
I can feel the slow glide of his eyes over me, and my skin instantly begins to warm.
When I reach him, his eyes have landed on my lips, and it’s all I can do to resist the temptation to run my tongue along my lower lip.
It’s impossible to ignore the hunger in his eyes.
I so deeply wish I was here to be ravished.
“You sure you want to go up to Jo’s for dinner? You look good enough to eat.” Shayne says, his voice almost a growl.
“Yes, dinner. We must go to dinner,” I reply slowly, kicking at the dirt beneath my feet. The silence stretches between us for a beat too long. I don’t know how to start this conversation. I can’t really say, ‘Hey Shayne, is your big secret that you’re trying to blackmail my friend?’
Then again, yes I can.
“Shayne, are you trying to blackmail Jo and Andy?” The words are out of my mouth in a hot rush. I’m too nervous to look him directly in the eye and instead focus on a spot six inches above his head. Shayne moves, and I brace myself, but all he does is cross his arms over his chest.
“I could tell when you got out of the car that something was weighing on your mind, but I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting a blackmail accusation,” he says.
There’s something in his tone that brings my gaze back down to meet his.
His face is composed, but his eyes are dancing with something that looks a lot like suppressed laughter. How dare this man mock my pain?
“Do you think this is funny? I’ve spent days convinced I slept with the enemy!”
“Your imagination is something else, Banshee,” Shayne says, laughter in his voice.
I throw my hands up, exasperated, and start pacing, an eruption poised to spew out of me.
“Well, what did you expect? You walk around in this big mysterious contradictory cloud—saying being with me is a stupid choice, but then you’re the one who showed up in a sex fugue state at my door in the middle of the night.
That’s on you. Ever since you came to town, everything has gone bananas.
Jo and Andy get threatening letters in the mail, and meanwhile you’re inviting me to boil myself in sexy lava water only to interrogate me about Andy.
Andy’s in the hospital, and somehow you’re the only one who heard or saw anything.
You were asking about keys to the office just before papers go missing.
Did you steal paperwork from their office? ”
“Paige, slow down. What notes? What are you talking about?” Shayne steps down off the porch and puts his hands on my shoulders, holding me in place. I push his arms away. I can’t take the distraction of his touch right now.
“Did you send the notes?” I repeat, slower, crossing my arms over my body.
“I haven’t sent any notes. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shayne combs his fingers through his hair and looks off into the distance for a moment. When he meets my gaze again, I can tell he’s come to a decision.
“Look, I shouldn’t have left you to spin your wheels. My reasons for being here are complicated, like I said. But I’m not here to blackmail anybody. I certainly didn’t break into any office. I did ask you for the key, but that was legitimately to help Jo out while she was away.”
“Are you here because of your sister?” Shayne’s eyes flash, and I can tell I’ve struck a nerve. He backs away from me and sits on the porch steps.
“I found a profile of hers online—I was trying to find out if you had a secret wife and that was the reason behind your whole ‘oh but we shouldn’t’ BS.” Shayne looks up and cocks an eyebrow at me, but I continue, “But then I found Lila. I saw an article about her accident. Shayne, I’m so so sorry.”
Shayne nods at me, but doesn’t speak, so I go on. “One of the photos on her public profile was with her and someone who looked a lot like Andy. Did they know each other? Is that why you’re here?”
Shayne remains quiet for a while, so long that I’m tempted to stomp over and shake him. Finally, after what could have been years or mere minutes, he starts talking, so I do the only thing I can do—sit back, shut up, and listen.