Chapter Fifteen
CASH
WE DON’T FIND a basement.
We find a time capsule.
All frozen in Technicolor.
“Wow,” Shay breathes.
“Wow isn’t enough.”
And yet, I’m having trouble focusing on the bright red mid-century sofas dominating the living room with a boomerang-shaped coffee table.
And I’m a sucker for kitchen decor. The turquoise walls define the dining room in the open space, and the kitchen looks like it was pulled straight from a 1950s catalog.
Chrome-edged yellow dinette set.
Retro-patterned dishware.
Turquoise chairs and a chunky pastel lamp that casts a warm, nostalgic glow.
If my chest wasn’t locked so tight I can barely drag in air, my pulse thudding in my ears, I could absorb this gem better.
“I love this.” Shay steps onto the green turf and trails her fingers along the fringe of an umbrella straight out of old-Hollywood poolside glamour.
She tips her chin, and the corners of her mouth tug up in a grin that loosens my chest just a little.
But I say nothing.
I want to be as awed as she is.
Hell, on some level, I am. I know I’ll admire the creativity when I get my emotions buried back deep down where they leave me the hell alone. The reminder of that year lands like a punch to the ribs.
Really hard.
Unexpectedly hard.
“This is like an underground bunker.” Her eyes flick to the chrome loungers. “I mean, it’s amazing.”
“Yeah.” My hollow voice echoes in the thin space.
I stuff my hands in my pockets, angry with myself for not wanting to reach out and make love to her on the lounger instead of letting feelings I long thought I left in my past resurface.
The growing fear as weeks turned into months of barricaded doors, scanning every shadow, sleeping with one eye open, had nearly consumed me then. And overhearing one conversation, I feel all the painful emotions rush back hot and sharp.
Shay touches the edge of the glass ashtray in the middle of the table. “I wish I had my camera. I would capture everything.”
“Yeah.”
Shit. I’m ruining the mood.
“You okay?” She steps closer, and her hand brushes mine.
She doesn’t grab.
She doesn’t demand.
She just reaches.
I stiffen slightly, and she notices.
Double shit.
I scrub my hands over my face. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” She smiles at me. “C’mon.” She takes my hand. “Let’s sit.”
We stretch out on the thick striped cushions on either side of a small, round side table.
The vinyl sighs under our weight, and air whooshes out.
She lifts a wide-brimmed ‘50s hat from the edge of her lounger and plops it on her head.
“You like?” She angles the rim low over her eye. “Instant glamour.”
I nod, trying to ignore the memories scratching at the back of my skull.
“You want to talk about it?” Her voice is patient, her face soft under the wide brim.
“No.” I say it too sharp—maybe.
Fuck.
“Okay.” She leans back, and her shorts ride up the sides of her legs.
Bare skin.
Sun-kissed.
Close enough to touch.
Damn, I wish I were in the mood. Wish my mind only wanted to slide on top of her right now. Kiss her. Touch her. Make her laugh like I’ve done so many times.
Instead, we sit for a long time. Small talk comes easy between the quiet that I need.
And this is good too.
This quiet togetherness.
I’m sure the women upstairs are gone, but neither of us moves to leave. Time is lost down here, just like the retro room.
Until she points to an upright metal rack of mallets and balls on the fake green turf.
“Look.” Her legs swing over the side of the lounger. “It’s that game from Alice and Wonderland and Bridgerton.”
“Croquet?”
She beams. “Yes. I’ve never played. Have you?”
“Not with pink flamingo mallets.”
“Have you played with regular mallets?”
I nod.
“I think I need to play this.” I don’t know how she makes everything feel brand new and exciting. “Will you teach me?”
“Is it going to be anything like your baking?”
“You’ll have to play to find out.”
A distraction from my thoughts is exactly what I need.
“All right, Little Miss Time Capsule, lead the way.”
She claps and hops to her feet. “But I am disappointed it’s not pink flamingo mallets.”
She grabs a plain wooden mallet, striped in green, and hands me one striped in blue.
She sets her ball at her feet and taps it with the head of her mallet.
“What are the rules?”
I give her the rundown. This isn’t a full game. Only three arches close together form a triangle.
She inhales. “You hit first.”
“Alright.” My fingers settle on the wooden handle, smooth and worn from years of use.
She steps back, tugging the ridiculous floppy hat lower over her eyes. “Good luck.”
I don’t need luck. I roll my arms and remember all the games I played with my grandmother growing up.
I whack the ball just hard enough. It glides under the first arch in one hit.
Her mouth gapes. “Impressive.” She steps up to her ball. “Looks like I have some competition.”
I shrug. “A little bit.”
“Uh-huh. Where did you learn to do that?”
“My grandmother.”
“Aww.” The soft, melted look she gives me reminds me of all the things she doesn’t know about me.
Like the stalker.
She lines herself up. Too stiff. Feet wrong. Grip tight.
First time, for sure. She swings, and the ball shoots forward. It launches off the turf, ricochets off the stairs, and rolls under the sofa.
I can’t hold back my laughter.
Her eyes go wide. “You’re laughing at me.”
“What was that?”
“I’m just getting warmed up.” She stalks toward the sofa.
“It was like a slap shot. This isn’t hockey.”
She points at me with the mallet. “Now, hockey I know.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
She laughs, and I appreciate the view when she bends over and fishes out the ball.
I plant the mallet in the turf and drape my forearms over the handle. “I would really enjoy watching more of this. Go again.”
She lines herself up, swings, and misses. When the mallet snaps back, it clips the ball, sending it straight at me. Fast enough, I have to jump.
“Oh shoot.” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you?”
She bursts into laughter. “No.”
I step up to her and place my ball in front of her.
While she’s still giggling, I move behind her.
My body settles against her back. My chest brushes her shoulder blades, and my hips align with the curve of her ass. She’s warm and soft in all the right places and molds into me.
She fits like she was made to stand right here.
“Let me show you how,” I whisper in her ear.
She nods, her hair tickling my cheek.
I slide my hands down her bare arms, fingers tracing the smooth skin before covering hers on the mallet. Her grip is tight.
“Relax.” The vanilla scent of her hair invades all my senses. “You’re gripping it like you’re trying to strangle it.”
“I do want to strangle it.” Her flirty tone pulls a smile out of me before I can stop it.
I adjust her fingers, loosening her hold, and guide her into a more natural position.
“Like this. Loose, but controlled.”
She nods.
“See the angle?” I tilt the mallet slightly to the left.
“Yes.”
“You want to catch it at the sweet spot. Not too hard, not too soft.” I pull back, then guide her through the motion. “Hear that?”
The soft thunk answers for her.
She nods, her body shifting slightly against mine. Her ass brushes against my cock. The friction should send a jolt of heat straight to my groin.
It doesn’t.
Because I can’t think past what she might be thinking, I’m too in my damn head.
“We’ll do it together,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Steady...gentle.”
With my hands around her, she taps the head of the mallet against the ball. Another thunk echoes in the quiet space as the ball rolls just past the arch.
“That was good.” I don’t want to let her go, but I step back.
“Was it?” She turns to me.
“It didn’t hit me, so I’m going with a strong yes.”
She struts to the ball. “Better than my cooking?”
“Another strong yes.”
She gasps. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult.” She snatches the ball, and I don’t miss that flash of worry she’s trying to hide, but she says nothing.
She hits and misses again.
“This is harder than it looks.” She retrieves the ball and glances back over her shoulder after she lines up her mallet. “I think I need another lesson.”
I resume my position behind her. My hands land on her waist. My grip slackens like my bones forgot how to hold me up, and something in me unravels.
My chest tightens. The air goes thin.
The room shrinks to her back under my palms, and the old fear claws up my throat.
I want her to hear it from me. I don’t want her finding it in some late-night search spiral.
“I... Shay—” My voice snags halfway out of my throat. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
Her laughter dies down, and her hand touches mine. “Tell me.”
My forehead drops between her shoulder blades. I fold into her like I’ve got nothing left to hold myself up.
“They were right. I had a stalker for a year.”
The word stalker scrapes on the way out. I swallow hard and try again.
“I want you to know my side. Not the version online. Not the one where I looked fine. I wasn’t. I kept filming, but everything else stopped.”
My throat tightens, and the next breath shakes.
She waits anyway, giving me the time to go at my own speed.
“It started with messages. Then threats. Then she found my address and broke into my place.”
I hear her soft gasp.
“I moved. Hid. Didn’t go out unless I had to. Slept with the lights on. Jumped at every sound. That restraining order? Useless.”
Her fingers lace into mine.
“I wasn’t only scared for myself. It was everyone else. My family. Friends. Anyone near me became a target.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Yeah.” My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. “And it never really left. I still listen for footsteps that aren’t there.”
Her thumb strokes my knuckles.
“She—” My mouth goes dry. “She hurt my dog.”
The sentence punches the air out of me.
“Broke into my place while I was gone. By the time I got home—” My vision blurs. I blink hard. “There was nothing to save.”