Chapter 4
fox in the henhouse
. . .
Miles
Iwasn't ready to leave yet. Couldn't explain why.
Maybe it was because going home meant sitting alone in my cramped studio, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Derek and the way his eyes had lingered on me earlier. The way his hand had brushed mine. The way my pulse had kicked up every single time he got too close.
Or maybe I was just a glutton for punishment.
I knelt beside my booth, shoving stray supplies into a box with more force than necessary. Banners, zip ties, half-empty bags of decorations that Lila had insisted I bring. The chaos of the day had left everything in a mess, and I was too tired to care about organizing it properly.
“You always this aggressive with inanimate objects?”
I didn't have to look up to know who it was. Derek's voice had become as familiar as my own heartbeat, which was annoying and inconvenient and made me want to throw something at him.
“Only when they deserve it,” I muttered, shoving another banner into the box.
He laughed, that low, warm sound that did terrible things to my resolve. I glanced up to find him leaning against the edge of his booth, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriatingly amused expression.
“Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Derek, I am sure.” I said sarcastically.
“Right.” He pushed off his booth, crossing the space between us in a few easy strides. “Move over.”
“I don't need your help.”
“Didn't ask if you needed it.”
Before I could protest, he crouched beside me, reaching for the crate I'd been struggling with. His shoulder brushed mine, close enough that I caught the scent of him again. Coffee and clean laundry and something warmer, something that made my stomach flip.
“Here.” He lifted the crate with ease, settling it onto the stack beside my booth. “See? Not so hard.”
I stared at him, my brain scrambling for a comeback. Something sharp, something cutting. But all I could think about was how close he was, the way his forearms flexed as he moved, the way his hair had fallen into his eyes.
“Thanks,” I said finally, the word coming out rougher than I intended.
“Don't mention it.” He straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans, and for a moment, we just stood there.
The noise of the festival grounds had faded, most of the other vendors having packed up and left.
It was just us, the golden light, and the weight of whatever this was hanging in the air between us.
Derek opened his mouth, then closed it. His expression shifted, something flickering across his face that I couldn't read.
The silence stretched, heavy and electric.
Say something. Anything.
But before I could, Derek's smirk returned, that familiar armor sliding back into place.
“Try not to break your back before the contest,” he said, his tone light, teasing. “I need you alive to lose.”
“Go to hell,” I muttered, turning back to my supplies.
“See you tomorrow, Miles.”
I didn't watch him leave. Didn't let myself. Because if I did, I'd see that look on his face again, the one that made me think maybe, just maybe, he felt this too.
And I wasn't ready to deal with that.
By the time I finished packing up, the sun had fully set, leaving the sky a deep purple streaked with orange. The string lights on the booths flickered on automatically, casting everything in a soft, warm glow. It was beautiful, in a way. Peaceful.
I grabbed the last box, hefting it into my arms, and started the walk home. My arms ached, my back screamed, and I was pretty sure I'd pulled something in my shoulder. But I'd be damned if I asked for help again.
The street was quiet, most of the shops closed for the evening. Jack-o'-lanterns glowed from storefronts, their carved faces grinning in the dark. The air smelled like woodsmoke and fallen leaves, and despite my exhaustion, I felt a flicker of contentment.
Maybe this town wasn't so bad. Maybe I could get used to this.
A car pulled up beside me, smooth and quiet, and I glanced over to see a sleek black sedan rolling to a stop. The window slid down, and Edward's face appeared, all sharp cheekbones and easy confidence.
“You look like you're about to drop that.”
“I'm not.”
He stepped out of the car, moving with the kind of grace that came from years of practice. Up close, he was even more striking. Silver hair perfectly styled, tailored coat that fit like it had been made for him, warm brown eyes that saw too much.
“Let me help,” he said, and it wasn't really a question.
Before I could protest, he took the box from my arms, lifting it easily. I stood there, suddenly lighter, my hands empty and useless.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“No problem.” He glanced at the box, then at me. “Where are you headed?”
“Home. It's a few blocks.”
“I'll drive you.”
“You don't have to.”
“I know.” He opened the back door, sliding the box inside. “But I'm offering anyway.”
My arms hurt, my back hurt, and the thought of walking another few blocks carrying that box made me want to cry.
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
He smiled, opening the passenger door for me, and I slid inside, the leather seats cool and comfortable. The car smelled like expensive cologne and something else, something warm and inviting.
Edward got in beside me, starting the engine. “So, Miles. How are you finding the festival prep?”
“Exhausting.”
He laughed. “I imagine. Derek mentioned you've been working hard.”
“Did he?”
“Oh, constantly. You're all he talks about lately.”
Heat crept up my neck, and I focused on the window, watching the street slide by. “We're competitors. It makes sense.”
“Does it?” Edward's tone was light, teasing. “Because from what I've seen, it seems like more than that.”
I didn't respond. Couldn't. Because he was right, and I hated it.
We drove in silence for a moment, the hum of the engine filling the space. Then Edward glanced at me, his expression thoughtful.
“You know, you remind me of your father.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Richard. You've got his eyes. That same stubborn set to your jaw.” He smiled, softer now. “He was like that in college. Quiet, a little guarded, but sharp as hell. Always working twice as hard as everyone else.”
“Sounds about right.”
“He was a good friend. Still is, I hope.”
I looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “You two were close?”
“Once upon a time. We lost touch after graduation. Life gets in the way.” He paused, his gaze distant. “It's nice to reconnect. Reminds me of who I used to be.”
There was something in his tone, something wistful and a little sad.
“I'm glad you guys reconnected,” I said quietly.
“Me too.” He glanced at me, and his smile returned, warm and genuine. “So. Where's home?”
I gave him the address, and he nodded, turning onto my street. But instead of stopping in front of my building, he kept driving, pulling into a small lot a few blocks away.
“This isn't my place,” I said.
“I know. It's mine.” He turned off the engine, glancing at me. “I thought we could grab a coffee. Talk. Unless you're in a hurry?”
I should have said yes. Should have thanked him for the ride and gotten the hell out of there. But something in his expression stopped me. The same loneliness I'd heard in his voice, the same thing I felt most days.
“Coffee sounds good,” I said.
His smile widened. “Good.”
Edward's townhouse was nothing like I'd expected.
The outside was sleek, modern, all clean lines and expensive-looking brick.
Inside, it was warm. Pale gray walls, art hanging in tasteful frames, a wine rack in the corner that was definitely too fancy for someone like me.
The furniture was minimalist but comfortable, leather couches and a coffee table that looked like it had never seen a coffee ring in its life.
It smelled like polished wood and something faintly floral, and I felt immediately out of place in my jeans and flannel, pumpkin spice dust still clinging to my sleeves.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Edward said, shrugging off his coat. “I'll put on some coffee.”
I wandered into the living room, my eyes catching on the framed photos lining the mantle.
Edward and Derek, younger, standing in front of what looked like the café.
Edward with a group of men in suits, probably from his lawyer days.
A few older photos, faded and worn, that looked like they were from college.
“That's your dad,” Edward said, appearing beside me with two mugs. He nodded toward one of the photos. “Front row, second from the left.”
I leaned in, squinting at the photo. Sure enough, there was my dad, younger and leaner, grinning at the camera with his arm slung around another guy's shoulders. He looked happy. Carefree. Nothing like the quiet, gruff man I knew now.
“He looks different,” I said.
“We all do.” Edward handed me a mug, and I took it, the warmth seeping into my palms. “Time changes people. But the core of who they are? That stays the same.”
I sipped the coffee. It was good. Rich, smooth, perfectly balanced. Of course it was.
“So,” Edward said, settling onto the couch. “Tell me about yourself, Miles. What brought you back to town?”
I sat on the opposite end of the couch, cradling my mug. “Lila needed help. And I needed a break from the city.”
“Bad breakup?”
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Something like that. More like a bad job, bad apartment, bad life choices. The usual.”
“Ah.” He nodded, and there was no judgment in his expression.
Just understanding. “The city has a way of chewing people up. I spent twenty years in the city doing corporate law. Made partner at thirty-five, had the corner office, the whole package.” He paused, sipping his coffee. “And I was miserable.”
I looked at him, surprised. “You? You seem like you've got it all figured out.”
“Now, maybe. But back then?” He shook his head. “I was drowning. Working eighty-hour weeks, living on takeout and three hours of sleep. My marriage fell apart.” His voice softened on that last part, regret bleeding through.
“Jesus.”