Chapter 2 Trace Memory
TRACE MEMORY
LILA
If the past twenty-four hours have made anything clear, it’s that Theo Grayson is absolutely not built for a road trip, however short.
At least not one where I’m driving.
“You’re a menace,” he grips the armrest like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this mortal plane.
His knuckles have gone white, his forearms flexing with the effort—dusted with just the right amount of dark hair, veins prominent.
Arms that look carved from tension and capable of very specific, very illegal things.
Not that I noticed.
I’m pretty sure if he clenches his jaw any harder, his molars might actually crack under the pressure.
I merge onto the highway with practiced ease and say with fake innocence, “Relax, Professor. I’ve only almost killed us once.”
“That is not funny.”
Outside, spring is trying to make up for the misery of winter. Patches of snow still linger in shaded ditches, but the rest of the landscape is softening—grass pushing through frost-stiffened earth, forsythia blazing yellow along stone walls, and sugar maples tipped in the faintest green.
The air has that restless clarity you only get in March, everything still half-frozen and damp, the sky a pale blue that almost looks unfinished.
Bellwood always wakes up slowly after winter, resenting the thaw in its own subtle way, but the town settles into the season the same way it settles into every old tradition.
White-steepled churches get their pastel bunting, the green hosts its first tentative farmer’s market stalls, and gossip shifts from being traded over snow shovels to being traded over seed packets.
We pass the weatherworn sign that boasts Founded 1736, its peeling paint made brighter by the cluster of hellebore someone’s planted at its base.
The Mayfair estate waits just beyond the outskirts of town, tucked behind budding elms, its reputation as stubborn and enduring as the town itself. Bellwood doesn’t let go of its history easily, not even in spring. Every new season shows how much of the past is still sitting in plain sight.
Theo doesn’t seem to be paying attention to any of it. He’s too busy digging fingernail grooves into my leather seat.
“To be fair, that truck came out of nowhere.” I’m actually an excellent driver, and he can kiss my ass. I consider making things worse by revving the engine just a little, but I decide to be merciful. For now.
I sigh. “Okay, fine. I promise to drive marginally safer. But only because I don’t want your tragic death on my conscience.”
His gaze flicks to me, unimpressed. “Comforting.”
He nixed me being in charge of the aux in my own effing vehicle less than twenty minutes into the trip, so the car settled into silence aside from the steady hum of the tires against the pavement.
It’s not exactly awkward, but there’s something hanging between us, something unspoken curling in the air like an unfinished sentence.
“So,” I say, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, “we should probably discuss our relationship backstory.”
Theo slumps in his seat and groans. “I knew this was coming. Mentally prepared and everything. I still hate it.”
I roll my eyes. “If we’re going to convincingly sell this whole ‘we’re madly in love’ act, we need to be on the same page.”
He shifts in his seat. “What’s our story, then?”
I hum, considering. “How about a torrid, forbidden love affair between a student and professor?”
A little too close to home, I realize, but that’s exactly why I said it.
His reaction is immediate. He visibly recoils. “Absolutely not.”
I snicker. “Relax, I’m kidding.”
Kind of. Not really.
Because we did have that night.
Back when I was still a student and he was just visiting Bellwood, not on payroll yet.
One reckless, all-eyes-and-almosts kind of night at a university-sponsored gallery opening.
Some cross-department event in a museum that smelled like polished wood and too much wine.
We ended up outside, sitting too close on a wooden bench, both of us needing the air away from the too-crowded space.
Funny how the closeness to one another hadn’t felt too crowded at all.
There’d been a pull between us from the beginning. Subtle, insistent, impossible to ignore. He’d glanced at me once across the room, and it was like something in me tilted toward him and never quite settled back.
We’d started talking about blood spatter patterns, of all things, and I absentmindedly mapped one out on a cocktail napkin with a pen lifted from the sign-in table.
Somewhere between impact angles and swapping terrible conference stories, we veered into childhood trauma and our shared hatred of networking events.
I’d mentioned a case I couldn’t shake (thankfully not his), and he’d known the exact one. We kept finding common ground. Same books. Same dark humor. Same need to understand why people break.
He’d kissed me. It was careful. Unsure.
We pulled apart before it could become anything more, before we could cross a line.
But if things had gone just a little differently, I think we would have ruined each other.
Then he got the job. Everything in between happened. I graduated. And we shoved the whole thing into a box labeled Never Happened, Definitely Shouldn’t Talk About It.
The box where he probably wants to shove a lot of things when it comes to me.
His stares out the window like maybe he’s remembering it too—remembering me.
“Fine, fine,” I say, breezing past it before I start picturing things I shouldn’t. “We met at a conference. I impressed you with my razor-sharp wit and undeniable charm. You were instantly smitten.”
Theo snorts. “Smitten.”
I nod solemnly. “Head over heels.”
“Sounds highly inaccurate.”
I shrug. “Too late, it’s canon now.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re unbearable.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching, just slightly. “If we’re doing this, we need to make it believable—but within reason,” he responds, his tone clipped. “Minimal effort, minimal touching, and for the love of God, no unnecessary dramatics.”
“Yes, because that will be convincing,” I deadpan. “We need to at least flirt. I am very flirtable with, and good at flirting.”
He shoots me a sidelong glance. “Lila. I am not flirting with you.”
“Sure you are,” I say breezily. “You just don’t know it yet.” I throw in a wink because I know he’ll hate it.
“This is going to be a long week,” he groans. “This was your idea. Did you honestly think we’d just wing it?” His eyebrows scrunch above his pretty brown eyes, likely already picturing the impending disaster.
I flutter my eyelashes at him innocently. “I mean… yeah?” Mostly because I didn’t think you’d actually go along with this.
His shoulders rise slightly, then settle again, and I swear I can almost see the internal countdown running in his head, each second bringing him closer to the vein in his temple popping. “You’re actually insane, aren’t you?”
I place my hand on my chest, dramatically feigning hurt. “You wound me.”
He rubs a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We do need a plan.”
I straighten, adopting my most professional inflection.
“Alright, since you don’t want to fake flirt with me, here’s the plan: We act like we’re in the middle of a very rocky relationship.
You can be distant, maybe a little cold.
Throw in a few eye rolls when I talk, act like you’re so over it.
I’ll be passive-aggressive, hinting that I don’t really care that much, but still somehow always in your space—we’ll need to stick together, of course.
We’ll have random arguments, make everyone feel the tension radiating between us, but keep it just believable enough that they think we’re together.
Maybe we’ll argue about something pointless at the worst possible moment, like, I don’t know, which dessert to get or how you never listen to me. ”
I pause, making sure he’s following. “Then, just when we’ve got everyone convinced we’re on the brink, you can dump me for the pool boy.
Super dramatic, a whole ‘I never loved you’ moment.
It'll be a mess, and everyone will eat it up. They’ll gossip about it for weeks, and I’m sure they could use the distraction. ”
I can feel his glare burning into the side of my face, and for a beat, I think he might actually be considering asking me to pull over so he can get out and throw himself into oncoming traffic, or at the very least step off the curb and let the universe take care of the rest.
“That is the single worst plan I’ve ever heard,” he finally says.
“You have a better one?” He grumbles something unintelligible, and I give him a pointed look. “Go ahead then, Buzzkillington, since my soap-opera-worthy script clearly doesn’t meet your high standards.”
He closes his eyes for a second like he’s gathering the strength to deal with me. “Fine. If I have a say in this, I have conditions.”
“Hit me.”
“No pet names.”
Fine by me. I don’t think I would survive hearing Theo Grayson call me pookie. “Got it.” I hum. “I’ll only call you daddy when absolutely necessary.”
“It won’t be necessary.” He glares at me. “No over-the-top PDA. Hand-holding if absolutely required, maybe the occasional arm around your shoulder, but that’s it.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Scared you’ll like it?”
“I hate you.”
I beam at him. “I know, I know.”
Theo exhales slowly, accepting his fate as the car rumbles up the long, winding driveway leading to the estate.
The trees arch overhead, filtering the afternoon sunlight in golden patches across the road, but I barely notice.
I’m too busy peeking out the corner of my eye at Theo bracing himself for the impact of our arrival with every inch we creep closer.
The roadside is slick with meltwater, puddles flashing silver in the light, and the last of the snow clings stubbornly to the shaded edges of stone walls.
Fresh shoots of green and purple push through last year’s dead leaves, small but insistent, dusky petals cupped low to the ground as if guarding the warmth they’ve stolen from the soil.
The estate road winds higher, curving around old maples just beginning to bud, their bare branches scratching the sky.
And then, in the distance, the house comes into view—massive and brick-red against the dark tree line, the house rises with too many gables and angles, all sharp lines and looming windows.
It doesn’t look lived in so much as staged—somewhere between a museum and a murder board game.
“This is it,” I announce, unnecessarily.
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see them—an unholy mess of cameras, microphones, and eager reporters hanging around like vultures circling a fresh kill. Literally.
The scene is chaotic, like something out of a movie, except it’s real, and it’s happening to us. They’ve probably been camped out for hours, just waiting for the next morsel.
I tighten my grip on the wheel and keep my eyes on the road ahead. Maybe if I pretend I don’t see them, they won’t notice us.
“This is actually disgusting. Do you think they’ll be this bad the whole time?” I mutter, half to myself, half to Theo.
He glances over at the mess of cameras. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I can’t help but let out a nervous laugh because the whole situation is so absurd that if I don’t laugh, I might just cry.
“This is a terrible idea.” He shakes his head.
“Deep breaths, Professor,” I say, putting on a facade of calm and flashing him a toothy grin. “If you survive this week without making me the next strangling victim, I’ll buy you a ‘World’s Okayest Fake Boyfriend’ mug.”
He glares at me, as if weighing the odds of succeeding. “That’s the least of my worries. If we survive this week at all, I’m sending you my therapy bill.”
“Joke’s on you. I already planned on forwarding you mine. You hurt my feelings when you said you wouldn’t flirt with me.” I fake pout. “The fact that you think I’m too unbearable to even fake flirt with is at least three sessions' worth of trauma to unpack.”
He side eyes me, entirely unimpressed.
We press forward, and it’s less like driving through a crowd and more like trying to dodge a hailstorm of flashing lights.
Theo looks like he’s about to sprout a second set of arms just to protect himself from the barrage of photographs being taken while I try to focus on not running over anyone’s foot.
Part of me wants to on purpose. They’d deserve it, but we finally pass through the gate with zero metatarsal casualties, and it slides shut behind us with a satisfying whoosh.
I pull up to the grand estate and put the car in park. Theo stares at it like he’s about to be fed to the wolves.
Before opening my door to get out, I nudge his arm and whisper, “Remember, we’re tragically dysfunctional, but still together for now. So try to look both annoyed and mildly affectionate.”
He levels me with a flat stare. “I am only capable of one of those things.”
“Look at you,” I say, lips twitching. “Already halfway there.”