Chapter 10
Lucas
For the third time in twenty minutes, I check the bar's front door locks and peer out at the empty street. Nothing. No black sedans, no men in baseball caps, no sign of Evan Pierce lurking in the shadows.
But that doesn't stop the restless energy crawling under my skin, the hypervigilance that's been building all day since Evan's appearance on Main street this morning.
She insisted she was fine staying there tonight, that Harper's deadbolts and alarm system were enough protection.
But I can see her laptop screen glowing through the guest room window across the street, which means she's as unable to sleep as I am.
I run a hand through my hair and force myself to step away from the window.
This is ridiculous. Maya is safe at Harper's house.
Harper's got good security, neighbors who pay attention, and my phone number on speed dial.
There's nothing I can do from over here except drive myself crazy with scenarios that probably won't happen.
Probably.
The rational part of my brain knows I'm being overprotective. Maya's a grown woman who's been taking care of herself in a major city for years. She doesn't need me standing guard like some Victorian gentleman protecting a maiden's virtue.
But the rest of my brain—the part that saw her face when she recognized Evan's car, the part that heard the fear in her voice when she whispered his name—doesn't give a damn about being rational.
I pour myself a whiskey and settle into the chair by my living room window, the one with the clearest view of Harper's house. Just keeping an eye on things. Making sure everything stays quiet.
The laptop glow in Maya's window flickers as she moves around, probably pacing while she works on whatever project is keeping her busy.
I know she codes when she's stressed. Harper mentioned it once, how Maya always had some side project going when life got complicated.
It's her way of maintaining control when everything else feels chaotic.
I get that. I do the same thing with bar inventory when I can't sleep.
My phone buzzes against the table. Text message.
See your living room light’s on. Can't sleep either?
Maya. I look up at her window and see her silhouette against the laptop screen, phone in hand.
Me:
No. Your window's lit up like a beacon too. What are you working on?
Maya:
Stress coding. Standard.
Me:
Want company? I could bring coffee.
The typing indicator appears and disappears several times. She's debating, probably weighing the wisdom of late-night visits against the reality that we're both too wired to rest.
Maya:
Actually... yes. Harper's got terrible taste in late-night snacks. All she has is organic kale chips.
I'm already reaching for my jacket before I finish reading.
Me:
On my way. Real food included.
I grab a thermos of coffee and raid my kitchen for anything that might constitute actual comfort food.
Leftover pizza, a bag of normal chips that don't involve kale, some chocolate cookies Steph brought in yesterday.
The kind of food designed for late-night stress eating rather than optimal nutrition.
The walk across the street takes thirty seconds, but I spend the entire time scanning shadows and checking sight lines. Old habits from my father, who taught me that paying attention to your surroundings isn't paranoia. It's survival.
Harper's porch light is on, and Maya opens the door before I can knock. She's wearing pajamas. Soft pants and an oversized sweater that makes her look young and vulnerable. Her hair is still in a messy bun, and there are circles under her eyes that tell me she's been staring at screens too long.
"My hero," she says, eyeing the food bags with obvious relief. "I was about to resort to eating the kale chips and pretending they were satisfying."
"Crisis averted." I follow her inside, noting the way she locks the door behind me and checks the deadbolt twice. She's rattled, trying to hide it with humor but not quite managing to disguise the tension in her shoulders.
"Harper's asleep," she says quietly as we head toward the guest room. "Fair warning, I may have consumed enough caffeine to power a small city. I'm very focused and possibly a little manic."
"Noted. So, what are you working on?"
"Something ridiculous." She pushes open the guest room door, and I'm hit with the familiar organized chaos of Maya in full creative mode. Her laptop is surrounded by notebooks covered in diagrams, sticky notes, and what looks like a complex flowchart. "Want to see?"
Maya settles cross-legged on the bed, patting the space beside her as she pulls the laptop closer.
I sit carefully on the edge, close enough to see the screen but far enough to maintain some semblance of appropriate distance.
Though at midnight in Harper's guest room, with Maya in pajamas and me bringing comfort food, appropriate distance feels like a lost cause.
"Okay, don't laugh," she says, turning the screen toward me. "I'm building a dating app."
I raise an eyebrow. "A dating app."
"I know, I know. The irony isn't lost on me.
" She scrolls through what looks like wireframes and user interface mockups.
"But I was thinking about what Mrs. Patterson said today, about leveraging existing platforms, and I realized most dating apps are designed for cities.
Anonymous swiping through strangers. They don't work for small towns where everyone already knows everyone. "
"So you're building one that does?"
"Exactly." Her eyes light up as she gets into explanation mode, and I find myself leaning closer despite my best intentions.
"See, instead of profiles based on photos and one-liner bios, this focuses on shared community connections.
Mutual friends, local events you've both attended, common interests that actually matter in a small-town context. "
She clicks through the mockups, pointing out features with the kind of enthusiasm I remember from high school when she'd get excited about a programming project. Her passion is infectious, and I realize I'm not just humoring her. I'm genuinely fascinated by the way her mind works.
"This is brilliant," I say, studying a screen that shows how users could connect through local businesses and community events. "Have you tested it?"
"Just theoretical so far. I'd need actual users to beta test, and asking people in Willowbridge to try my dating app feels like social suicide." She laughs, but there's something self-conscious in it. "Plus, it's not like I'm exactly qualified to build something designed to help people find love."
"Why not?"
"Because my track record with relationships is objectively terrible?
" She gestures at herself with mock drama.
"I mean, I'm sitting here at midnight building a dating app while hiding from my stalker ex-client and having confusing feelings about my childhood friend.
Not exactly the resume of a romance expert. "
The casual mention of "confusing feelings" makes my pulse kick up, but I force myself to focus on the technical aspects of what she's showing me. Safer ground.
"Your track record doesn't matter," I say. "You understand what's missing from existing apps. You see the problem clearly enough to build a solution. That's what makes you qualified."
She looks at me then, and the air turns electric. "You always do that."
"Do what?"
"See the best version of me, even when I can't see it myself." Her voice has gone soft, unsteady. "You did it in high school too. Made me feel like I was capable of more than I thought."
"Because you were. Because you are."
"Lucas..." She starts to say something, then stops, shaking her head. "Want some pizza? I promise to share if you help me debug this user authentication flow."
She's changing the subject, deflecting from the moment of vulnerability, but I let her. Because pushing now, in this intimate late-night space, feels like taking advantage of her emotional state.
But as she reaches for the pizza box, our hands brush, and neither of us pulls away immediately. The contact is brief, innocent, but it sends a buzz shooting up my arm that has nothing to do with static and everything to do with the woman sitting beside me.
"Pizza first," I agree, my voice rougher than it should be. "Then I'll pretend I understand enough about coding to be helpful with your debugging."
"Deal." She smiles, and it's the first genuinely relaxed expression I've seen from her since Evan's car made its appearance earlier. "But be warned, I may explain things in excruciating technical detail. It's a character flaw."
"I'm counting on it."
An hour later, we've demolished most of the pizza and made significant progress on her authentication system.
Maya's explanation of database security protocols should not be attractive, but watching her get lost in the technical details—the way her hands move when she talks, the little furrow between her eyebrows when she concentrates—is doing things to my self-control.
"See, the problem with most OAuth implementations," she says, leaning closer to point at something on the screen, "is that they don't account for the trust factor in small communities."
She's close enough now that I can smell her lingering perfume, something citrusy that makes me want to bury my face in her neck. Close enough that when she shifts to grab her coffee, her thigh brushes against mine, and I have to grip the edge of the bed to keep from reaching for her.
"You're not listening to me," she says, but there's amusement in her voice rather than annoyance.
"I'm listening." The lie comes out gruff and low. "OAuth. Trust factors. Very important stuff."
"Liar." She turns to face me fully, and we're closer now. I can see the dusting of freckles on her nose, the way her lips start to part slightly. "What are you thinking about?"