Chapter 10 Genevieve
Genevieve
I press my back against the wood, trying to settle whatever just got knocked loose inside me.
He walked me home because he knows Art would want me safe. He ate my stew because he was hungry. That’s it.
That’s all it was.
I push off the door and head for the bathroom, peeling off my bleach-stained clothes as I go.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in an oversized T-shirt, hair damp and twisted into a knot, when there’s a knock.
My heart stutters.
Lance?
I pad to the door and peer through the peephole.
Art.
Of course it’s Art. That’s who I want it to be.
I undo the lock and pull the door open, and there he is—auburn hair windswept, peacoat on, a bottle of wine in one hand and a white box in the other.
“Hey, you.” He smiles that crooked grin that made me fall for him in the first place. “I know it’s late. Is this okay?”
“Yeah. Of course. Come in.”
My gaze cuts past him, checking the sidewalk and down the street, something pressing against my lungs.
He steps inside, kissing my forehead as he passes, and the familiar scent of his cologne wraps around me like a blanket. This is the smell I needed. Not campfire and leather, this.
“I brought your favorite.” He holds up the wine. “And…” He opens the white box to reveal two perfect slices of tiramisu from Dante’s restaurant in the town square. “A peace offering.”
“For what?”
He sighs, placing everything on the counter and running a hand through his hair. “Everything. But that’s not an excuse. I know I’ve been distracted. You deserve better than me showing up at one a.m. with wine and sugar like that fixes anything.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Come here.” He reaches for me, pulling me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me like I’m something precious.
I sink into it. Into him.
This is the Art I remember. The one who made long distance easy. Who surprised me with visits and romantic gestures. He’s never sat at my tiny kitchen table and let me ramble about brain physiology over stew, but who needs that when I have this?
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m trying, Gin. I promise I’m trying.”
“I know.”
And I want to believe it. I really do.
He pulls back, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “You look exhausted.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Beautiful,” he corrects. “Exhausted and beautiful.”
“Are you trying to get laid?”
He quirks a brow. “Is it working?”
I laugh, and he kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that used to make me forget everything else, and for a moment, it almost works.
“You want some wine?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he says.
I grab two glasses from the cabinet—the nice ones I never use—and he uncorks the wine with practiced ease, pouring us each a generous amount.
“To us,” he says, lifting his glass.
“To us,” I echo. “May we one day actually live together instead of you coming to visit me in this studio.”
His grin falters, and I lean forward, clinking my glass against his. “Relax, babe. I’m kidding.”
Kind of.
Art settles onto my couch, tugging me down beside him, and I curl into his side like I’ve done a hundred times before. His arm drapes over my shoulders, and just like earlier, I sink into the comfort of it.
“Open that,” I say, nodding toward the tiramisu.
He does, balancing the box on his knee, and hands me a plastic fork from the carryout.
“We’re sharing?” he asks.
“Obviously.” I scoop up a bite, the mascarpone melting on my tongue, and groan. “God, that’s good.”
“Yours is better.”
I beam up at him as I chew.
“Speaking of, how come you never told Lance I could cook?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked if the earth is flat. “I avoid talking about you to Lance unless absolutely necessary.”
My stomach drops.
“Real nice.”
“Come on, you know it’s not like that. You two don’t get along, and I don’t want to fight with my best friend about my girlfriend or vice versa.”
His hand finds my thigh, squeezing gently. “I missed you.”
“You see me all the time at the tavern.”
“That’s not the same as this. Being with you alone. Just…hanging out.”
I set my wineglass on the coffee table and shift so I’m facing him, my legs tucked beneath me. “Then maybe you should do it more often.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should.”
He kisses me again, deeper, and I get lost in it. He tastes like wine and sugar, and when he pulls me closer, I go willingly, my knees bracketing his hips. His hands find my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, and heat pools low in my stomach.
“I love you.” He breathes the words into my mouth, and I swallow them down.
“I love you, too.”
And I mean it. At least, I think I do. Art’s the only man I’ve ever said those words to outside of my dad.
So why does something feel off?
“Art?”
“Hmm?”
I trace a pattern on his chest, keeping my voice light. “The other day, at the tavern… I heard you say something to Lance.”
His body tenses.
“Yeah? What’d you hear?”
“Something about my father.”
His expression is neutral, but there’s a war behind his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Just something I heard through the grapevine. You know how people talk.”
“People talk about my dad? What did you hear?”
“Regular defense attorney shit. Every worry you’ve already voiced to me, about him dealing with criminals—”
“Alleged.”
“Right. I just worry he’s not safe, you know? Sometimes I think maybe he should move here, too.”
“Fat chance of that happening but join the club.” I laugh. “Comes with the territory.”
“Defense attorneys, right?” He shrugs. “It’s really nothing for you to worry about, baby, that’s why I didn’t want you to hear it.”
I want to push. Ask who told him, and what exactly they said, and why he would be worried about my dad beyond the usual.
But the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m being paranoid.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” I lay my head down on his chest. “Okay.”
His hand finds the back of my neck, and I close my eyes.
I should tell him about the man at the bar. About Lance waiting for me in the tunnels. About the stew, and the seven seconds, and the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he didn’t have the corner pieces for.
But I don’t.
The words sit on my tongue, heavy and sour, and I swallow them down like medicine I don’t want to take. Guilt curls through me, and I press closer to Art and close my eyes, his heartbeat pulling me under.
But even as I drift, one thought keeps circling:
Why didn’t I tell him
Late-Night Stroll or Something More?
Rosebrook’s favorite pastime (gossip) is back in full swing, thanks to a curious sighting in HillPoint that has tongues wagging and group chats lighting up.
Late last night, long after the porch lights flickered out, none other than Lance Calloway and Genevieve DeGrance were seen walking side by side in HillPoint.
That’s right, Genevieve, as in Arthur Penngrove’s girlfriend. And Lance, as in Arthur’s best friend and frequent partner-in-alibi.
The pair appeared deep in conversation, their heads bent close together under the glow of a single streetlamp.
Picture it: Two shadows, one shared secret.
Was it an innocent walk home? A midnight coincidence? Or is there more beneath the surface than either of them are saying?
Eyewitnesses say the mood was “intense but quiet.”
So far, no comments from the Calloway or Penngrove camps, and Genevieve’s whereabouts earlier that evening remain unconfirmed.
It’s possible it was just a friendly walk, but Lance Calloway historically isn’t known for friend zoning.
Does Art have something to worry about? And what would the mayor think of Genevieve two-timing his son?
#HillPointSighting #GinnyAfterDark #CallowayThrowaway #RosebrookAfterHours #RosebrookRagExclusive