2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Poppy
The security doors clank behind me as I step out of the juvenile detention center, and the sound echoes in my bones. For a place meant to rehabilitate kids, it sure feels like punishment.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to work out the tension. My blouse is clinging to my back, damp with sweat from the stuffy visiting room. It’s fall in Tennessee, which means the air is thick and sticky and confused about whether it wants to grace us with an autumn rain or roast us alive. I exhale and glance at my watch.
Shit.
I’m officially out of time. No way I’m making it home to change before the charity auction.
I tug open the door of my dusty Prius, toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel. My car smells like old coffee and lavender hand sanitizer—a scent I’ve grown weirdly fond of. The A/C wheezes as it kicks on. It’s barely stronger than a toddler blowing air through a straw, but I’ll take it.
My mind is still on my client as I merge onto the highway. Sixteen years old, charged with armed robbery, and facing transfer to adult court.
He swears he didn’t do it. That he was just the lookout, too scared to run when his cousin pulled a pocket knife at the gas station. But Tennessee’s laws don’t exactly leave room for fear or nuance when it comes to kids from the wrong side of the tracks with criminal records, no matter how minor the prior offenses.
I keep thinking about the way his hands shook when he handed me a drawing. Just pencil on notebook paper, but detailed and careful. A superhero version of himself, with a cape, a shield, and a big letter M on his chest.
“You’re the only person who’s ever believed in me,” he’d said, trying to sound casual. “I hope someday I can make you proud.”
God.
I blink away the sting in my eyes and refocus on the road. It’s bad enough that I don’t have time to change before the charity auction… I certainly can’t have mascara streaking down my face, too. And Lord knows my organization needs the money. I can’t continue to represent Marcus and other kids who’ve been failed by the system without it.
Twenty minutes later, I’m pulling into the gravel lot behind the Hawks Roost Town Hall. Cars are packed in like sardines, some of them luxury SUVs with gleaming black paint and tinted windows. I spot a Lexus, a Tesla, and what I’m pretty sure is a vintage Mustang. There’s even a stretch limo. Hawks Roost is a small town, so I’m used to seeing pickup trucks and mom vans, but it looks like the businessowners with deep pockets have shown up for the event. Good. Hopefully, they’re feeling generous.
I quickly park and rush inside. The building is buzzing. String lights are strung across the rafters, casting a warm golden glow over the crowd. Tables are stacked with silent auction items—gift baskets, artwork, a handmade quilt. And at the front, a little platform stage has been set up, flanked by ferns and a glittery cardboard sign that reads Auction for a Cause!
A well-dressed volunteer with a clipboard intercepts me the second I step inside. Her smile is a little too wide. “You’re just in time, Ms. Prine! We’re lining up the participants now.”
“Oh—uh—great,” I say, trying to sound upbeat even as I glance down at myself.
Wrinkled gray pantsuit. Stain on the sleeve I don’t have time to identify. My blouse is a little crooked, and my sensible black loafers—God bless ’em—look like they belong in a DMV. My dark brown hair is twisted into a messy bun and held in place by a No. 2 pencil. I meant to take it out before arriving, but honestly, it’s the only thing keeping my hair off my neck right now.
The other women are glowing. Glittering. Glossed and curled and cinched in tasteful cocktail dresses that probably didn’t come from the clearance rack at Target. I see heels. Statement earrings. Perfect makeup.
I am…not that.
I shuffle into the lineup, doing my best to shrink into the background, but the room is buzzing. Low murmurs ripple through the crowd like a wave, and at first, I think they’re just reacting to the next auction item. But then I see heads turning. People craning their necks. Whispers rising like smoke.
And then I see him.
Governor Adam Boston.
Tall, polished, and entirely out of place in our tiny town hall. He cuts through the crowd with easy confidence, wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than my car and carrying the kind of quiet charisma that makes rooms rearrange themselves around him.
He’s heading toward the front. Toward us.
And he’s looking straight at me.
My heart skips. No—stumbles. Trips over itself and lands face-first in my stomach.
He’s older than the last time I saw him, sure. A little more silver at the temples. A little more weight to his gaze. But it’s him.
My former best friend. My study partner. The man I used to sit next to in lecture halls and secretly wonder what it would feel like to reach across the armrest and hold his hand.
I haven’t seen him in years. But here he is, walking toward me like a man with a mission.
And suddenly, I’m very aware that I’m wearing a wrinkled blazer and a pencil in my hair.
Please, universe, don’t let me be the punchline of tonight’s political gossip.
Because unless I’m hallucinating from exhaustion and too much courtroom coffee, the Governor of Tennessee is about to bid on me. And I have absolutely no idea why.