Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lila spent the night second-guessing every decision she'd made in the past twenty-four hours.
She lay in her grandmother's four-poster bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazy circles above her, and mentally cataloged all the ways this could go wrong.
She'd handed over two years of research to a man she'd known for three days.
A man who'd admitted—without really admitting—that he was some kind of federal agent working off the books.
A man who looked at her like he was solving a puzzle, and she wasn't sure if she was a piece or the whole picture.
“I work for a federal agency. Off the books.”
What did that even mean? FBI? CIA? Some alphabet soup she'd never heard of? He'd been deliberately vague, giving her just enough to trust him without giving her anything she could verify.
And she'd trusted him anyway.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She grabbed it, heart jumping, but it was just Delia.
Coffee at Mae's? 7 am? Need to gossip about the security consultant. He's HOT.
Lila groaned and typed back.
He's here for work. Stop.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Work doesn't mean you can't look. 7 am. Don't be late.
She dropped the phone on the bed and pressed her palms against her eyes.
Delia meant well. Delia always meant well.
But Delia also had no idea that the hot security consultant was actually investigating the town they'd both grown up in, looking for corruption that might reach into places Lila didn't want to think about.
Places like the police station. Like the town council. Like Warren Caldwell's charitable foundation.
She threw back the covers and headed for the shower. There was no point in lying here spiraling. She had a centennial to plan and a best friend to lie to.
Just another day in Blossom Springs.
Mae's Bakery sat on Main Square, sandwiched between the post office and the library. The same brass bell had announced customers for forty years, and the same glass cases displayed the same croissants, muffins, and elaborately decorated cookies that Lila had been eating since she could walk.
Delia was already there when Lila arrived, tucked into their usual booth by the window with two cups of coffee and a plate of lemon scones.
"You look terrible."
"Good morning to you, too." Lila slid into the booth and wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. Still hot. Delia knew her well.
"Seriously. Did you sleep at all?"
"Not much. Centennial stress."
"Mm-hmm." Delia's eyes narrowed. She was a pediatric nurse at the hospital, trained to spot when people were lying about how they felt. "Centennial stress. That's what we're calling it."
"That's what it is."
"Right. And the fact that a tall, dark, and brooding stranger showed up in town three days ago has nothing to do with your insomnia."
Lila took a long sip of coffee to avoid answering.
"I saw him yesterday," Delia continued, undeterred. "Walking down Main Street like he owned it. That man has a presence, Lila. Capital P."
"He's a security consultant. They're supposed to be observant."
"Observant is one thing. That man looks like he's cataloging escape routes and potential threats every time he enters a room." Delia broke off a piece of scone and popped it in her mouth. "It's kind of sexy, actually."
"Please stop."
"When's the last time you went on a date?"
"I'm not discussing this."
"It's been two years since Jason. Two years, Lila. At some point, you have to get back on the horse."
The name hit like a slap. Jason Reeve. Her ex-fiancé. The man she'd trusted with everything, right up until she found out he'd been sleeping with her cousin for six months.
"Ronan Cross is not a horse," she said flatly. "And I'm not looking to ride anything."
Delia choked on her scone. "Oh, my God. Did you just make a dirty joke? Who are you and what have you done with Lila Bennett?"
Despite everything, Lila felt her mouth twitch. "I'm capable of humor."
"Rarely. And never about men." Delia leaned forward, her expression shifting from teasing to genuine concern. "Hey. I'm not trying to push. I just—I worry about you. You spend all your time working, and when you're not working, you're in that house alone, going through your dad's old files—"
"You don't know what I do in my free time."
"I know you better than anyone. And I know something's been eating at you for months." Delia reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."
Lila looked at her best friend's open, worried face. Delia, who'd held her hair back during college hangovers and sat with her through three days of crying after Jason. Delia, who'd never once betrayed a confidence or let her down.
She couldn't tell her. Not about the permits. Not about her father's notes. Not about the federal agent who was currently digging into the foundations of their town.
"It's really just the centennial," she said. "I promise. Once this is over, I'll be back to normal."
Delia studied her for a long moment. Then she sighed and released her hand. "Fine. But after the centennial, we're having a real conversation. With wine. And possibly tears."
"Deal."
The bell over the door chimed. Lila glanced up automatically, and her stomach did something complicated when Ronan Cross walked in.
He was wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was damp, like he'd just showered, and he moved through the bakery with that same contained energy she'd noticed before. Aware of everything. Missing nothing.
His gaze found hers across the room. Held for a beat too long.
Then he nodded, casual as anything, and turned to the counter to order.
"Oh, my God." Delia's voice was barely above a whisper. "Did you see that? He looked right at you."
"He's being polite. Small town. People acknowledge each other."
"That was not a polite acknowledgment. That was an 'I know things about you' look."
Lila's heart stuttered. Because that's exactly what it was. He did know things about her. Things she'd told him in her office yesterday, with the door closed and her father's files spread across the desk.
"I should go," she said, reaching for her bag. "I have a meeting at eight."
"It's 7:15."
"Preparation. You know how I am."
"I know you're running away, that’s what I know." But Delia was grinning. "Go. But you're not escaping this conversation forever."
Lila stood and dropped a kiss on Delia's cheek. "I'll call you later."
She walked toward the door, keeping her eyes straight ahead. She would not look at him. She would not—
"Ms. Bennett."
She stopped. He was standing at the counter, coffee in hand, watching her with an expression that gave nothing away.
"Mr. Cross."
"I was hoping to stop by your office later. A few follow-up questions about the parade route."
"Of course. I'll be there until five."
"I'll find you."
Something about the way he said it made her skin prickle. Not a threat. Not quite a promise. Something in between.
"I'm sure you will," she said, and pushed through the door before he could respond.
The morning passed in a blur of phone calls and emails. Vendor confirmations. Permit renewals. A heated argument with the florist about whether blue hydrangeas were an appropriate choice for the memorial dedication. (They were. Lila won.)
By noon, she'd almost managed to stop thinking about Ronan Cross. Almost.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Hendricks. First Street. 2 pm. Can you get away?
She stared at the message. He hadn't given her his number. She hadn't given him hers. But somehow, he had it anyway.
Of course he did. He was a federal agent. Getting phone numbers was probably the least impressive thing he could do.
She typed back.
Why Hendricks?
Your father's notes mentioned him. I want to see the office.
Her chest tightened.
Hendricks. The attorney who appeared on too many closing documents. The name that kept surfacing every time she pulled on a thread.
I can get away. Where do I meet you?
Corner of First and Main. We'll walk together. Less suspicious.
Less suspicious. Like she was a spy now, meeting contacts on street corners and conducting surveillance on local attorneys.
Two weeks ago, her biggest concern had been whether the centennial t-shirts would arrive on time. Now she was coordinating with a federal agent to investigate a man she'd known her entire life.
She texted back a simple confirmation, then deleted the entire conversation from her phone.
Old habits. Or new paranoia. She wasn't sure which.
The corner of First and Main was busy at two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon.
Tourists wandered past with shopping bags and ice cream cones.
A group of teenagers clustered outside the soda shop, laughing at something on someone's phone.
Two older women, Lila recognized from the historical society, stood in front of the antique store, examining a display of vintage china.
Normal. Everything looked perfectly normal.
Ronan appeared beside her without warning. She didn't see him approach—one moment she was alone, the next he was there, close enough that she could see the flecks of gray in his eyes.
"You need to work on your situational awareness."
"You need to work on not sneaking up on people."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Fair point. This way."
They walked down First Street together, side by side but not too close. To anyone watching, they probably looked like colleagues. Maybe friends. Nothing worth noticing.
"Hendricks has been practicing real estate law in Blossom Springs for thirty-five years," Lila said quietly. "His father started the firm. His grandfather was one of the original town council members."
"I know. I also know he's handled seventy-three percent of coastal property transfers in the past decade."
She stumbled slightly. "Seventy-three percent? How is that even possible?"