5. Colton
five
Colton
I clench the wheel tight because what I want to do is take her hand, hold it firm, maybe pull her into me. Make her feel better without saying a damn word. There’s things a hug can do that words can’t, and right now that’s what she needs.
There’s always something about being together in the small space of a car or the cab of a truck. You share the view, the conversation, the destination, the music. You feel the other person without—most of the time—looking at them. It’s like your senses are heightened, sharpened.
At least that’s the way it is for me right now with Kiara. Sharing a car ride has never felt so intimate.
She shuts down again when I try and make light of her family. Make her see the good side of it. There’s clearly more going on than just douchebag cheating on her with her stuck-up sister. I wonder what’s up with her father? I’ve never heard her mention him.
I’m definitely not asking her now. I did enough damage today. Instead, I retreat to a safer topic. “So, when are you getting a proper vehicle for your business?”
“Soon as my favorite mechanic repairs it?” she says, and the way she does—with a smile my way that lights up the night—the way she says I’m her favorite even though I’m the only game in town, makes my brain a little foggy.
I messed things up between us with that kiss, and our friendship will need to come back from it. But damn, those lips. Soft and plump and welcoming. And the way she held herself to me, as if she was losing her balance. The way her eyes closed on instinct, and fuck me, how she opened her mouth?
“So… when’s that gonna be? You have the part?” Kiara asks.
My dick strains against the seam of my pants. “Huh? Uh, probably.” What was—oh yeah, the starter motor. “If I have it, I’ll fix it tomorrow for you.”
“You don’t have to. Tomorrow’s Sunday.” Her words are stilted. I really fucked things up, didn’t I? I need to get us back to normal.
“I’ll get the loaner back tomorrow in case I can’t fix your car.”
She narrows her eyes on me. “Why would you get the loaner back if you’re not open and giving someone their car back?”
Excellent point. Did not think that through. “Long story.” I shrug. “Seriously though,” I add, needing a semi-change of topic but going back to my primary concern, “when are you going to trade in the Corolla? It’s not what you need to deliver pastries.”
She sighs and shakes her head like I’m a little dense. “After I get my own space to bake.” She starts picking at her cuticles again, a sure sign she’s stressed.
“Why does it need to happen after?” Once Kiara started working part-time for my cousin Chris, who owns the bakery in town, word quickly got out what a great pastry chef she is. She started fulfilling catering orders out of her kitchen in the rental apartment. Then she got more business from a few hotels and restaurants.
For those accounts, she bakes on-site. It keeps her afloat, but it won’t allow her to grow.
“It doesn’t. It’s… a lot to think about, and an investment.”
“But it’d help you grow your business, yeah? A nice little refrigerated truck with your logo painted on it. I can see it…”
She stops biting her nails and crosses her arms. Or maybe she crosses her arms to stop the biting. “Yeah, don’t worry, Picasso. The day I have my own van, you’ll get to paint it.” She’s looking out the window, so I can’t tell if she really means it, but a smile tugs at my lips anyway. Kiara giving me nicknames means we’re back to normal.
“What kinda truck you thinking?”
She whips her head to me. “I’m not thinking anything. Jesus, Colt, you’re so literal.”
I am literal, she’s right. “Okay, then. If you were to have a truck, what would it be? Just say the first thing that comes—”
“A VW van.”
“What? The Volkswagen Type 2?”
She shrugs. “Sure.” Her tone’s uncertain.
“The microbus?”
She crosses her arms tightly. “Yup.”
“You mean the rear-wheel drive, tiny little hippie van that can’t handle a snowflake and has shit for heat?”
She rolls her eyes. “You said the first thing that came to my mind.”
“You didn’t let me say that part, actually.”
“But that’s what you meant.”
Yes, that’s exactly what I meant . Of course it’s what I meant. We’re close enough to finish each other’s thoughts. “Nope. I meant to say, before you rudely interrupted me,” and she snorts at this, “the first thing that comes with an all-wheel drive or four-wheel drive, good ground clearance, good cargo space, good fuel efficiency. These are non-negotiable.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Finally the tension leaves her as she laughs.
“Am not,” I pretend to be serious.
“You would never, ever, call a car a thing.”
Well, that settles it. “Seriously though, a VW?”
“Seriously, I am not getting a new vehicle .” She spits the word like it’s dirty. Then she perks up and adds, “but if I could get a vehicle, it would totally be a souped-up VW Camper.”
“Souped-up, huh? I don’t think anyone can do that for you.”
“Why not?” Her arms are crossed again, but in a challenge. We both know she’s never getting a VW bus for her business, souped-up or not.
“Well, for starters, you’d need a new engine. New transmission. The wheels are ridiculous, especially for the winter season. The inside is…” I glance at her, then smirk when she returns the gaze, “I guess it’s to size.”
She punches my bicep. “Jerk.”
“Why?” Small is beautiful. I snap my eyes back to the road and think better than to add that last part. We’re finally back to normal, and honestly, why do I feel the need to give her compliments now? It was never like that.
I take the last curve before my garage and instantly notice my loaner sitting on the side of the bay under a foot of snow. Kiara doesn’t notice it, or if she does, she could think it’s any random car. But her mind is elsewhere. It’s almost like I can feel the tension radiating from her.
The fork where I’d take a left to go back to Sunrise Farms is coming up, but I don’t want to go home yet. I need to unwind from this weird evening by hanging out with friends. And I don’t feel like going home with Kiara just one floor away from me. I just need to get back to norm—
“I could use a beer,” Kiara interrupts my thoughts. “At Lazy’s?” she adds quickly, in case I thought she wanted a beer with me, the two of us alone at my place or hers. Like we’ve done a hundred times. Bad idea. At least we’re still on the same page.
I keep going straight, toward the center of Emerald Creek, toward The Green and Lazy’s. It’s one of those moments when it’s clear to me how damn lucky I am to live here. When driving into Emerald Creek gives me that feeling of home .
Not just the fact that to my left, down Timberline Way, is where my parents live; that to my right, up Hardscrabble Road, is the Arena where I spent so much time playing hockey. Or that my third-grade teacher, Ms. Angela, now owns the bed-and-breakfast on Winooski, on top of working occasionally at the general store and the bookshop, and overall being in everyone’s business in the most endearing way.
Or that my cousin’s bakery is now famous and sits right on The Green.
It’s all of it. The knowledge that in a minute, I’ll walk into Lazy’s, grab a beer, sit with my friends, and just be . No expectations.
We glide down the empty streets, freshly plowed and bathed in the warm glow of streetlights. The bright gleam of storefront windows showcases cute displays—most of it overpriced stuff tourists lose their minds over. But what do I care? It’s good for business, and no one’s complaining. Most of the town lives off tourism and if—
“Holy fuck!” Kiara screeches as she sits tall, looking out the passenger window.
On instinct, I hit the brakes, though lightly enough to keep control in the snow. A furtive shadow darts across the sidewalk, sliding into the narrow alley between two buildings.
“What happened?” I say.
“Whoever that was just threw eggs at the Shy Rabit!”
“It’s Shy Rabit,” I say, and we both chuckle as I stop the truck and get in reverse. The relatively new name of the bookshop is a topic of gossip, and sometimes heated discussion, at Town Hall meetings. A few years ago the store was bought anonymously through shell corporations, so we don’t know who the owner is. The name was changed to Shy Rabit and the manager, who’d worked for the previous owner, repeatedly assured there should only be one B and no The. “It’s not a rabbit,” she’d say and roll her eyes.
“Fuck, you’re right,” Kiara says, squinting at the storefront. Two bright yellow streaks drip down the window, frozen solid before they could hit the ground. She steps out of the truck and picks something up from the sidewalk. I lower the passenger window and cold air quickly fills the cabin. “What are you doing? Come back in.”
“We interrupted them,” she says, showing me a carton of eggs.
“Good! Now get back in here, it’s freezing.” I start closing her window, but she raises her voice above the rumble of the engine.
“We need to report this!” Her eyes are widening like I’m missing how bad this is.
Seriously? “Sweets,” I say, the nickname escaping me, “it’s just eggs. Come on.”
She stays on the sidewalk, holding the eggs up. “Declan needs to know about this!”
“You’re reading too much into this!”
The minute the words leave my mouth, I know I’m in trouble.
Her eyes bug out. “Excuse me?”
I take out my phone. “I’m calling Declan,” I say, referring to our chief of police. “Come on, get in the truck.”
She stays put on the sidewalk. “I can’t believe you said that!”
“Said what? It’s cold.” I hold my phone up. “I won’t call him till you’re inside. Don’t be ridiculous.”
She stomps to the truck and slams the door. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I can’t stand when people say I’m reading too much into stuff. It’s a lazy cop-out.”
“Noted,” I say, trying not to chuckle as I call Declan.
He picks up on the second ring, and I fill him in quickly.
“You have the eggs?” he asks.
“Yup.” Kiara, now next to me in the truck, is holding them on her lap.
“I’ll need them as evidence.”
“The weapon,” I add with a smile.
“Right,” he adds. Declan isn’t exactly the joking kind, but it’s because he’s always looking out for us. Anticipating what could go wrong.
“We’ll be at Lazy’s,” I tell him, then hang up.
“You’re holding evidence, it seems,” I say to Kiara.
“Oooh. Cool. Can you lift fingerprints from a carton?” she says, lifting her hands from the eggs.
“Probably. And DNA.”
“Shit. How ’bout from eggs? I didn’t open the box.”
“You’ll have to ask Dec. You’re his only witness.”
“Ugh. Is he gonna want to interview me? The day just gets better,” she mutters.
“Matter-of-fact, it does,” I say as we pull up in front of Lazy’s. “Come on.” I hop out and grab the leftover cake Eloise insisted we take. The other leftovers—neatly packed in plastic containers—are coming home with me if Kiara doesn’t want them. Especially Uncle Bill’s meatloaf.
Inside, the pub is full of familiar faces. And as we walk in, every single one of them falls silent.
“Where you guys coming from?” my sister, Grace, asks. Her gaze goes between Kiara and me, sliding up and down to appreciate how overdressed we are.
“Ugh, you don’t wanna know,” Kiara says as she hoists herself on a barstool between Willow and Haley, two of our friends.
I drop the cake on the bar and flip open the box, revealing a section of the masterpiece Kiara brought to her grandmother’s. Willow claps her hands, hops off her stool, and starts slicing the cake, loading small plates that Haley passes out.
Alex, my cousin’s pregnant fiancée, laughs. “Did you guys secretly get married, and this is your way to tell us?”
Kiara rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Even that sounds better than what happened.” She doesn’t look at me. I don’t know if she said it to kill the rumor mill—which, if so, mission accomplished —or if she’s genuinely disgusted by the idea of being married to me. I’m vaguely offended that it may be the latter.
“Oh no,” Alex says, leaning in. “What happened?”
“Are you that bad?” Grace calls out to me from across the bar, chuckling, then listens to Kiara recounting our evening. I pay close attention so we keep our stories straight.
I’m hoping she leaves the kiss out, but with Kiara, you never know.
“Man, this is so good,” Haley says, pointing to her plate. “So he pretended to be your boyfriend? Way to go, man!” she adds, flashing me a grin.
“You took one for the team,” Justin, the owner of the pub and Haley’s brother, says to me.
“Hey! Fuck off!” Kiara shoots back playfully.
“My point exactly,” he says, pouring us each a beer. He takes a bite of cake Haley shoves in his direction. “Mmm, darn it. That’s the shit.”
Kiara ignores the compliment. “He did great,” she doubles down. “He even…” she pauses for dramatic effect, takes a sip of beer, then licks the foam off her upper lip. I can’t help but watch, tasting my beer on my own lips, wishing it was my tongue on hers—fuck it. Got to stop .
“He even what?” Grace asks, holding her fork up mid air.
Kiara glances at me, mischief flashing in her eyes. Don’t say it. “He even promised my uncle Bill to take him to his next car race.”
“Aww man, that’s sweet! Colton! I didn’t know you could be such a good boyfriend,” Alex says.
“That’s because he’s fake,” Kiara chimes in.
Ouch.
“How long you planning on pretending like that?” Grace asks, a frown marring her forehead.
“I’m telling Uncle Bill tomorrow that it was fake. And I don’t give a shit about the rest of the family. I’m not planning on seeing them for at least a year. Plenty of time for a fake breakup.”
“Oh, good,” Alex says like that’s the best thing ever. Looking at me, she blushes slightly, then adds, “You don’t want to play those charades too long. It’s gotta be exhausting.”
“It was fun, actually,” I say. “I could always be an actor if the garage thing fails,” I add, stealing a line Mom always uses when she sees us do something moderately well. “Fooled everyone over there.”
Kiara twitches on her chair, the reference to acting surely stirring up a memory. She lifts the beer to her plump lips again, but sets it down immediately as Declan comes into the pub.
I’d already forgotten about that.
The conversations die. Declan might have grown up here but when he shows up in his uniform, we know there’s potential trouble. When he’s in plainclothes? He’s one of us.
But tonight, he’s in uniform.
He gestures for Kiara to step aside, takes his notebook out, and gets her testimony. This does two things. One, everybody’s up to speed with the same, accurate information. Two, I get to look at her with no interruption for the full two minutes that Declan’s interview lasts.
Really look at her. Not just get a glimpse of the little ball of fury that she can be in the evenings when her day went to shit and she stops by my place to blow off steam and we end up watching MMA or playing video games. Not the grumpy, half-awake persona that comes out of the building in the mornings. Not the swearing, don’t-give-a-fuck Kiara that terrifies town newbies with her quick judgments and eerily accurate nicknames.
No, I get to look at a collected, young yet seasoned woman who’s had a long, mostly shitty day (though I like to think I made it better). By the way her soft gray irises reflect the light in a changing pattern of little fireworks, I can tell she’s holding her smile for now, respectful of Dec’s police business that we called in.
She stands as straight and tall as her five foot one (she insists on the one) allows her, which pushes her perky tits up. She has them molded in a ridiculously soft sweater that’s kind of a tease in itself because even if it shows no skin at all, it begs to be touched. With that, she chose a tight skirt in a pattern that gives stuck-up vibes that are totally not Kiara. Wild guess, it was to blend in with her mother and her sister. It molds her ass nicely though, and it does stop way above her knees, which is a blessing given she’s wearing what she calls fishing stockings, which are the dress-up version of torn jeans, I guess, except sexier.
Her tiny little feet are—
“You done?” Chris voice jolts me. Shit. I didn’t even see him come up to me.
I jerk my head. “Done with what?”
Chris has a small smile, but his gaze on me is stern. “Eye-fucking her,” he growls under his breath.
“Get your mind out of the gutter. I was…wondering why she’s wearing these weird clothes.”
Chris raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t she say something about her family being a pain in the ass?”
“That’s what you wear when your family’s a pain?”
He ignores my perfectly valid point. “You sure this was fake? You’re not keeping something from the rest of us for whatever reason, right?”
“Not everyone’s like you,” I respond under my breath. Chris and his then apprentice Alex were sleeping together way before any of us clued in on that. Or most of us. I’m usually the last one to catch up on these types of developments.
“If you say so,” Chris says.
“Where’s Skye?” I ask to change the topic.
“Asleep upstairs, at Justin’s.” He produces an earpiece that I hadn’t noticed. “We’re testing the baby monitor.”
I chuckle. “Cute. You look like a bodyguard.”
“Wait ’til you have a kid. World doesn’t look so cute anymore.”
I shrug. Although in the past I might have expressed my views on what kind of father I’d be, I don’t see myself becoming a dad. The more I try to date, the less that whole domestic life getup holds appeal.
Declan pockets his notebook, then scratches his head. “I don’t like it,” he declares, looking at all of us. Really, two eggs on a window has our chief of police rattled? This town needs real problems.
“I’m sure you can handle it,” Chloe says with a frown. Justin’s wife owns the restaurant next door to his pub, and last summer some nasty business erupted with her chef that required police intervention.
Declan bares his teeth in a grimace and tilts his head. “Yeah, there’s more,” he says. But instead of filling us in on the more, he makes for the door.
“Seriously, Dec, you’re gonna leave us hanging?” Kiara spits, her fists on her hips. “What more is there?”
“You’ll figure it out soon enough, Nancy Drew,” he says over his shoulder.