Chapter 13
Thirteen
Jameson
My phone vibrates in my pocket while I’m driving back to my motel after my date with Lane. Our kiss is still fresh in my mind and lingering on my lips. The way her body felt against mine is seared into my skin.
I dig it out and curse under my breath when I see Mile’s name flashing across the screen. Nausea gathers in the pit of my stomach, a warning.
I put it on speaker. “What’s up, man?” I ask, the words coming out tight.
He hesitates a beat. “DNA results are in. It’s a match. Lane and Ceciley are the same person.”
His words hit like a punch to the gut. Deep down, I knew the truth, but part of me held onto hope.
I scrub a hand over my face, drawing in a steadying breath. I haven’t told Miles about my theory, but I can’t avoid it anymore. Not if I want to keep her safe. He’s going to lose it at first, but once he hears me out, he’ll understand. He always does.
My hands tighten on the wheel, bracing for impact. “We can’t tell the client we found her.”
Silence stretches on the line, punctuated only by the hum of the engine. Then: “And why the fuck not?”
I swing into the parking lot, pulling into a spot close to my room, and throw it into park. I glance around, it's mostly empty, just like it is every day. Only two other cars join mine, one of them belonging to the lady at the front desk.
The flickering red-and-white “MOTEL” sign bathes the asphalt in uneven light. Shadows stretch across puddles from last night’s rain, distorted and trembling.
“I think killing him was her only option.”
Miles scoffs, his irritation clear. I can practically see him rolling his eyes. “What are you talking about? She killed him and started a new life. That’s premeditated.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “Exactly. Think about it, Miles. The police report made it seem like she just snapped one day and shot him. If that’s true, why did she have an escape plan?”
“We weren’t hired to figure that out. We were hired to find her. And we did,” he mutters.
I run a hand through my hair, irritation creeping up my spine. “Pull up the client’s photo. Look at her. Tell me what you see.”
I hear his mouse clicking as he scrolls through the files on his computer. “I see a spoiled rich girl who shot her husband.”
My jaw clenches. “Look at her eyes. Tell me where you’ve seen that look before.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Your mom.”
I close my eyes against the memories flooding in. My dad’s fists, raining down on my mom as I desperately tried to pull him off her. The fear, the shouting, the doors slamming.
He hit her over the simplest things. Work shirts she forgot to wash, dinner that was a little too well done, if she was a minute late coming home. Anything could set him off.
Fear and fists were the only things I knew until I met Miles and his family when I was in fourth grade. After we moved for the third time in five years because Dad couldn’t keep a job. He was the first real friend I had, and his family treated me like their own.
When I was thirteen, I finally had enough. I stole the keys to Dad’s safe and hid his shotgun under my bed. The next time he raised his hand to Mom, I pointed it right in his face. I told him to leave and never come back. Last I heard, he’d died from liver disease eight years ago.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “My mom had support. Friends, neighbors. What if Lane didn’t? What if shooting him… was the only way out?”
“Okay, let’s say you are right. What about the client? You think he’s just going to forget about her?” he asks, doubt bleeding into his voice.
I glance across the deserted lot, the cool night air pressing against the glass. Legitimate question, and one I don’t have the answer for yet.
“We have six months. I’ll get her to trust me, and then I’ll tell her. If I tell her now, she’ll vanish, and I might not find her again for years.”
“Fallen for her, haven’t you?”
There’s no judgment in his voice, but still I tread carefully. “She doesn’t deserve to have her new life destroyed.” Truthful, but careful.
But Miles knows me too well. “Is she worth it?”
“Yes.” It’s the easiest answer I’ve ever given.
I must sound crazy to him. I just met Lane, I barely know her. Except I feel like I do know her, like I’ve always known her.
“I’ll keep you updated.” The line goes dead.
I know one thing for sure. I can’t fucking lose her.
I could have taken her to bed, lord knows I wanted to, but I want to take my time. I want to be patient, respectful, kind. Everything her ex-husband wasn’t.
So I walked away. Much to the dismay of my dick. But she’s worth every second of self-control. She is worth everything.
The next morning, I step through the door of Brewed. The rich, bitter aroma of roasted beans hits me instantly, mingling with the sweet tang of milk froth and vanilla syrup. My eyes sting from sleep deprivation, thanks to my mind keeping me up half the night.
“What can I get ya, hun?” The barista’s voice drifts over, sugary and flirtatious. Her long blonde hair brushes her shoulders, her brown eyes soft and inviting. But she isn’t Lane, the Wildflower who has my focus entirely.
“Large Americano,” I say, voice clipped.
Disappointment flashes across her face and she gives me a half-hearted smile. “Coming right up.”
“You didn’t even entertain her for a second.”
I turn, finding Kam standing there, lips turned up in an approving smile, arms folded across her chest.
I shrug, shoulders straining against my white t-shirt. “Not interested. My attention belongs to someone else.”
“Smart answer. I’d have to put your balls in a vice grip if I caught you chatting up another woman while taking my best friend on dates.” Her voice is sweet, but the threat is clear.
Jesus Christ. This woman just says whatever comes to mind.
“Noted.” I swallow and internally cringing at the thought.
I’m both slightly terrified of Kam and also extremely grateful Lane has a best friend who looks out for her so fiercely.
Her expression softens, and she glances around, arms dropping to her sides. “Just be careful with her, okay? She’s been through a lot and doesn’t trust men easily. Don’t mess it up.”
She just unwittingly confirmed my suspicions. Lane’s husband hurt her.
I hold her eyes, letting her see my promise. “She’s safe with me.”
The barista calls out my Americano. I grab my coffee, but before I can leave the shop, Kam stops me.
“Hey, Jameson.”
I turn back to face her.
She smirks knowingly. “The County Fair is this week. It’s one of Lane’s favorite things.”
“Thanks, Kam.”
Wednesday night, Lane and I stroll into the fairgrounds, hand in hand. Neon lights blaze against the night sky, casting colorful streaks across the gravel walkways. The air is thick with fried dough, sweet kettle corn, and the metallic tang of popcorn butter.
Children’s laughter spirals from spinning rides, mixing with the deep rumble of the ferris wheel and the high-pitched screams from the tilt-a-whirl.
Lane’s eyes sparkle under the glow of lights, her smile bright and unrestrained. “This is what I look forward to most in the summer.”
“Which do you come for? The rides or the food?” I ask, guiding her through a group of teenagers clutching candied apples and funnel cakes.
“Food,” she answers immediately, then adds, “and the petting zoo.” She glances up at a spinning ride and shakes her head. “I’m too old for that. I can do the Ferris wheel, but that’s it.”
I chuckle, squeezing her hand, loving how perfectly it fits in my own. “I don’t do rides either.”
We pass a jewelry booth, and she pauses, fingers grazing a delicate gold cuff, set with colorful gemstones. She moves down the table, eyes roaming over the colorful gems, the hem of her summer dress brushing softly against her thighs.
When she lingers over a necklace with a pale opal, I slip both into my palm and pay the vendor while she studies a display at the other side of the tent.
I slide up behind her. “How old are you, Wildflower?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
She glances at me over her shoulder, lips tilting in an easy smile. “I just turned thirty-three in January. You?”
She kept her age but changed the month. Interesting. Most people would make themselves younger.
“Thirty-five last month.” I link my fingers with hers, drawing her out of the tent and back into the throng of people.
We weave our way through the fair, heading toward the barns, the loose gravel kicking up under our shoes.
The crowd’s thinned some, but laughter still floats through the air.
Kids tugging at their parents’ hands, begging for just one more ride.
A group of teenage girls giggling as they pass a group of guys.
There’s something soothing about it, the slow, simple flow of small town life. Nothing like New York. No blaring horns, no over crowded sidewalks, no rush.
It’s…nice.
It’s no wonder Lane picked New Haven to start her new life.
“Did you like growing up in Philly?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. Asking about her past is delicate territory, and I need to tread carefully.
She’s likely to give me a fabricated story, but the investigator in me needs to see how much her two lives overlap, if at all.
The question catches her off guard. Her shoulders tense, but her smile doesn’t falter. “I liked it. But I like small-town living a whole lot better.”
I don’t press. Instead, I give her a piece of me, hoping that if I open up, she will too. Eventually. “I went the opposite route. Grew up in a small town in Maine, with my mom and stepdad, before moving to New York.”
“Stepdad?”
I nod, the words already tasting sour on my tongue. “Yeah. My dad wasn’t a good guy; he treated my mom and me like shit. But a few years after he left, she met Vic,” I say slowly, each word careful. “He isn’t anything like my dad and showed me and mom what family should be.”
Lane stiffens, a small shiver running through her. It’s subtle, but I feel it through our linked hands. She looks up, her eyes holding the ghosts of the past she tries so hard to hide. “I’m glad your mom found Vic.”
I want to ask her more, to dig into the pain she keeps buried, but I can’t; not yet. Instead, I steer us toward the petting zoo.
I pay the attendant for two cups of food, handing one to Lane. “Why bartending?” I ask, the smell of hay and animals clogging my throat.
We stop at a waist-high fence, sheep and goats pushing each other out of the way in the desperate search for food.
She dumps some feed into her hand and sticks it through the bars, beaming as a baby goat nibbles at it.
“I needed a job when I moved here, and it was the first one I found. I didn’t plan to stay this long. But I ended up loving it.”
She doesn’t even realize that she loves it so much because of the sense of power and control it gives her, being the authority figure.
I trail behind her as she moves to the next enclosure. “I still can’t believe you are a land surveyor,” she chuckles as one of the piglets noses her boot. “You look like you should be doing something more dangerous.”
I step closer, my front pressed against her back, breath warm against her ear. “Don’t worry, baby, I have a bike back home, and I used to be a bouncer in college. Trust me, my job is the only boring thing about me.”
A shiver runs through her. She turns, her eyes glazed with lust.
“Well, isn’t this cute?” a familiar voice drawls from behind me. Lane’s eyes go wide.