Sheltering Sparks (Sparkwood #4)

Chapter 1 The Only Safe Space

The Only Safe Space

Kiki

Open the door, Kiki. You can’t sit here forever.

My hand grips the manila folder as my foot twitches out an anxious rhythm.

Just a few more minutes. A few more centering breaths. A few more—

What’s the point? A few more minutes won’t change a damn thing.

A small internal voice offers a modicum of hope.

Maybe today will be different. Maybe no one will say anything.

It’s a lie, but one I cling to like a dying man to a life preserver.

There are moments when I feel like my old self. Almost normal. No stares, no whispers, no gossip waiting for me the moment I turn the corner.

Those moments never last long.

But today, I have a mission. Maybe it’s a minor one, but I made a promise and, damn it, I’m true to my word.

I plaster on a smile as my trembling hands wrap around the door handle.

“Come on, Kiki. You can do this. You walk in, hand him the folder, and walk out. Easy peasy.”

Of course, it’s anything but easy.

Nothing is easy anymore.

I step out of the car and smooth my hand over my pants, catching my ghost-thin frame in the rear window. Once upon a time, I appreciated mirrors, my slender silhouette reflected back at me. Now, I avoid the damn things.

It’s been weeks since I stepped on a scale. What’s the point? I don’t need a number to remind me of my jutting hip bones, skeletal wrists, or clavicles that could double as jousting tools.

Little by little, pound by pound, day by day, the old me slips away, leaving a shell in her place.

Across the field, a game is already underway, the crack of a bat cutting through the crisp fall air.

I step off the pavement and onto the grass, and that’s when I see it—the first accusatory glance. A woman, a fellow Sparkwood local, leans into her friend. I can’t hear her words, but I’d bet money I know exactly what she’s saying.

That’s her.

The wife of that piece of shit monster. The sex trafficker.

I can’t believe she’d show her face here, of all places.

If they only knew how many mantras I repeated to myself in the car to gather enough gumption to step outside. How many deep breaths I drew in through trembling lips, willing the courage to withstand their hatred.

The worst part of this mess?

They’re not wrong about anything they say.

My estranged husband, Drake, is a monster.

He is a piece of shit, and he has been charged with human trafficking, all carried out while employed as Sparkwood’s police chief.

Trust me, I know how it looks.

They’ll claim there’s no way I couldn’t have known what Drake was doing. No way I didn’t suspect something was amiss.

Newsflash, I had no clue. Zero. But convincing the folks of Sparkwood that I’m an imbecile and not the monster’s assistant has been a futile journey.

No one believes me.

You can do it, Kiki. One foot in front of the other.

I glue my focus to the ground and hurry toward the ballfield. Toward one of the few people in town who won’t shoot evil glares in my direction.

Eddie Landry, Oriana’s half-brother.

We’ve partnered on a few projects, and while I’m fairly certain the opportunity came at his sister’s behest, I’m still grateful for the steady inflow of funds into my depleted bank account.

He’s one hell of a craftsman, quickly becoming a local legend for his unique, innovative approach to home restoration. No joke—the man has an eye for design that blows my mind.

And he listens. He asks questions. Treats my input like it matters.

Plus, he’s nice to me despite everything. That’s a rarity these days.

Eddie catches sight of me, a smile crossing his chiseled face as he raises his hand in greeting.

I rush down the hill, toward the only safe space at this ballpark.

My low heel catches on the soft ground, and I stumble, but Eddie grabs my arms, steadying me.

“Easy there, Kiki. You okay?”

I nod, my cheeks flaming. Now everyone is staring. So much for a quiet entrance. “I’ve always been a bit of a klutz.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Good thing I’m here.”

I thrust the folder into his chest. “Here are the interior mockups, as requested. I created a few different design scenarios to give your client more options.”

“I’ve been waiting for these. Let’s see what you’ve come up with.” Eddie flips through the pages. “Impressive. Now tell me in English what I’m looking at.”

A smile sneaks across my lips at his easygoing charm, and I lean closer, tentatively pointing to a living room design. “This one stays closest to the original Georgian Revival lines. It respects the symmetry but opens things up a little.”

He nods. “Brings in more light without messing with the bones of the house.”

I turn the page. “This is a Beaux-Arts option. More formal. It leans into the house’s age instead of fighting it. And this one,” I flip to the final mockup, “was just for fun.”

Eddie studies the last design, a hint of a grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “I really like this one.”

I lean closer, my excitement over the designs overriding decorum. “Me too. It’s my favorite. It’s Art Nouveau influenced, which means it shouldn’t work—”

“But it does.”

“Exactly.” I draw in a deep breath, brutally aware of his proximity—and how good he smells. “God, you smell amazing.”

Holy crap, I did not just say that out loud.

Except, I did.

And he does. Cedar and smoke, like a late evening curled around a fire.

But the last thing Eddie needs is the pariah of Sparkwood mooning over him.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” I wave my hands, desperate to disperse the nervous energy circling me. “Hopefully, these designs work for you.”

Eddie leans against the chain-link fence, his dark gaze on me. “They’re perfect. Exactly what I needed. Far better, if I’m being honest.”

I kick a pebble with my shoe, eyes glued to the ground. “Great.”

“And for the record, you smell good, too. I’m just glad you said it first.”

My gaze cuts up to meet the smirk crossing his face. Just like that, he dissipates the tension.

He’ll never know how much that means to me.

“Keep me posted about the job. I’m crossing my fingers for you.”

“Absolutely. Here’s hoping, right? This would set my guys up with work throughout the winter.”

I bite back a smile.

I highly doubt Eddie Landry is hurting for work. Not when his portfolio includes a luxury resort and more than a few Gilded Age mansions scattered across the hillsides around Sparkwood.

But Eddie is humble. A show-don’t-tell kind of guy.

I like that about him. He’s the complete opposite of Drake.

And maybe—just maybe—if I’d chosen a man like Eddie, I wouldn’t be standing here now, carrying the weight of someone else’s sins.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

I swallow the thought before it can take root.

Eddie gazes toward the far end of the ballfield as a small dark-haired boy grabs a bat and walks toward the plate. He cups his hands around his mouth and hollers, “Come on, Theo. Knock it out of the park, buddy!”

“So, that’s the infamous Theo.”

Of course he’s adorable. Just look at his father.

The little boy hoists the bat. I swear, it’s almost as big as he is.

He swings and misses.

“That’s all right,” Eddie says, clapping once. “You’ve got this!”

Another swing, another miss.

I glance down at my fingers, now curled around the fence, as I say a silent prayer for his son. Silly, really. It’s just Pee-wee League. There’s a good chance Theo won’t remember playing ten years from now, but in this moment, it’s everything.

And God, I want to see him win. One of us deserves it, right?

The ball cracks against the bat, and Theo takes off, tearing around the bases as the opposing team scrambles for the ball.

Eddie and I stand there clapping and cheering as Theo rounds the bases, sliding into home with an exaggerated flourish and jumping up and down, his little fist in the air as he smiles toward his dad.

It’s not a gorgeous hit. It’s better—messy, clumsy, and absolute perfection.

“That’s my boy,” Eddie says, the joy lighting him up from the inside.

“Absolutely amazing,” I crow, clapping as Theo high-fives his teammates. “I witnessed the first infield home run of a future Major League Baseball player.”

Eddie snorts, tapping the folder against his thigh. “You probably witnessed his only home run, if we’re being honest. Theo loves the game, but he could use some work. I’m terrible at baseball and can’t stand the sport, so I’m probably not as much help as I should be.”

No way will I let him downplay his devotion. I lean into him, just for a moment, giving him a gentle hip check. “You’re here, Eddie. That’s what counts.”

He settles his arms on the fence, shooting me a soft smile. “Thank you for that.”

For half a second, I let myself stay there. But life isn’t content to let me bask in his warmth.

From the corner of my eye, I see a woman stop in her tracks, her gaze fixed on me.

Oh, no.

Maybe she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe—

“What is she doing here?” The woman directs her question to no one and everyone at the same time. “If I were her, I sure as hell wouldn’t show my face in public.”

Color climbs my cheeks as my heart pounds, hard and fast, desperate to run away even if my feet remain rooted to the spot.

I grip the fence like a vise as the air thickens around me and my lungs struggle to keep up, my eyes fixed on the ground as I will it to swallow me whole.

A new voice chimes in, further twisting the knife. “She needs to crawl back to her cave and stay there.”

My body begs to collapse to the ground while my mind considers taking a few wild and poorly aimed swings at my attackers.

Neither option will help. Nothing will.

“Better yet,” the original accuser replies, “leave Sparkwood forever. We don’t want your kind here.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

So this is what being buried alive feels like, except with insults and hatred instead of snow or rocks.

“Okay. That’s enough of that garbage.” Eddie pushes off the fence with a grunt and turns around, his voice carrying across the field.

Oh my God, Eddie. Please don’t say anything.