Chapter 3 #2
I nod and pop back inside, top off my mug, and prepare another for Lacey, adding cream slowly until it's the shade I remember her preferring: Country Club Khaki.
Seeing as Nyx's coffeemaker features the world's smallest carafe and three mugs have almost emptied it, I fill a third mug and start a fresh pot in case the guys wake up.
Clenching all three mugs in one hand, I go out onto the deck, across the narrow strip between the houses, and up onto the deck of the remodel.
I find Lacey standing at the sliding glass door, bouncing on her toes, nose to the glass like an excited child, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.
She's so fucking adorable it makes my heart flip, and I almost tuck tail and run from how bad it hurts.
As soon as I'm at the door, she yanks it open, doing grabby hands. "Gimme!"
I snort and shake my head, handing her the mug. "Still a madwoman when you don't get your fix, huh?"
"You have no fucking clue, Cole." She takes a long, noisy, slurping sip, eyes closing as if experiencing the most rapturous delight.
Her moan of bliss, after swallowing, is raw and unfeigned and shoots straight to my dick.
I turn away from her, pretending to check out the open-concept den and kitchen as a ruse to hide the hopefully surreptitious adjustment of my junk.
The Cartwright girls were always a part of our social circle growing up, not the inner circle, but more than just school pals or classmates—we've all been in this house at one point or another.
I have a very clear memory of the last time I was here, for Layla and Lainey's high school graduation party.
Felix and Riley really outdid themselves in here—I wouldn't know it was the same house, inside or out.
When I have my situation sorted out, I turn back around to find Lacey smirking at me over the rim of her mug. "You're not as sneaky as you think you are, Cole. I remember that move."
I feign confusion. "What are you talking about?" I gesture at the home. "I was admiring Felix and Riley's work."
"Uh-huh. You mean to tell me you weren't adjusting yourself?"
"Nope," I answer, popping the P.
She rolls her eyes. "Sure, sure."
For a brief, glorious moment, I can almost let myself believe this is our house, and this is our normal banter, that no time has passed, that we've spent the last decade and a half together. That she's Lacey Mannix.
We'd have a teenage kid by now, probably. Or more likely, a fourth- or fifth-grader.
This is the thought that shuts me down, sending a lance of agony through me.
I feel my gaze harden, feel the hostility and anger at her return in full force. I'm powerless to stop it, and I know Lacey senses it.
The humor in her face fades, dies. "Cole, I…" She closes her eyes again, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I have no right to tease you like that."
"No, you don't." It comes out harsh, the syllables bitten off. I let out a breath, sighing. "That was aggressive. I'm sorry. I just—"
"You don't need to apologize, Cole. I get it. I deserve it."
Then tell me why, I think, but the words won’t come out.
I crave answers more than anything else in life, and to two questions in particular.
One: Why did Lacey vanish in the night, all those years ago? What did I do?
And two: who murdered my father?
Pain threatens to overwhelm me, as it does whenever I let myself think about those two questions.
"Cole?" Her voice is small, quiet, and soft. "I…are you okay?" I feel small fingers on my left shoulder.
I nod. "Yep."
"Of all the people in the world, Cole, you should know you can't lie to me."
I hang my head, then nod. "I know."
"So you're not fine."
"Are you?" I glance over my shoulder at her.
"Nope. Not even close."
"Wanna tell me about it?"
She snorts. "Yes, I'd love to tell my long-lost high school sweetheart all about my horrible, messy, nasty divorce from my wealthy, powerful, sugar-daddy husband."
"Ah, right."
"It didn't start out that way," she says. "At least, not in my mind. That's not what I thought it was."
"No?"
"No! God no! I…" she shakes her head. "I'm not sure that's a conversation best had over coffee. It's more of a two-bottles-of-wine conversation."
"I'm not sure that's a conversation for i time," I say. "I don't need to know about your shitty ex-husband."
"I think maybe this was a mistake," she whispers.
"Which part?" I snap. "Leaving in the middle of the fucking night without a goddamn word? Marrying some old sugar daddy with wrinkly balls instead of me? Coming back for no apparent reason after fifteen fucking years? Or just the coffee?"
A tiny sniffle tells me my arrows hit the mark—maybe a little too accurately. "Yes to all. Except his balls aren't wrinkly. He's wealthy and powerful, not old."
"Cool. Don't care." The anger is beyond my control. I recognize it coming out of me, but I'm powerless to stop it.
I slug back the coffee in my mug, burning my throat in the process, but fuck it. "I gotta go. If I stay here any longer, I'll just keep saying mean shit to hurt you, and two wrongs don't make a right."
"Cole—"
I shake my head, turning to face her; she's in my space, less than a foot away, gazing up at me, her blue eyes soft and sad and hurting. Her kinked and wavy hair is explosive and messy, begging for my hands to wrap up in the long, golden tresses. For a split second, I can see it happening.
My hands diving into her hair, knotting my fist in it as I yank her against my chest, off-balance and panting, and I kiss her plump, pouty lips.
Fuck.
I back away from her, dragging the back of my wrist across my mouth, and I know my brow is furrowed and my gaze must be full of fire and fury, because that's easier than pointless arousal or the ache of a decade-old wound that has never healed.
She follows me a step or two, but her toe catches on the floor, and she trips, stumbling. Against my will, my eyes are drawn to her chest as she stumbles and catches herself.
Lacey was always well-endowed; I beat up more than a few guys in high school for making lewd comments about her tits, back in the day.
But the monsters under her shirt?
Much, much bigger than I remember them being.
Yes, she's older, and age and life have added some curves to her body in all the right places, but…
damn. When she trips, they jiggle like Jell-O in an earthquake.
Her nipples are hard and prominent, poking against the fabric of her lavender V-neck tee.
Which is tight, clinging to her frame and leaving next to nothing but the shade of her skin to the imagination.
I stare a beat too long, because she turns red and covers her chest with her arms, hugging herself. I rip my gaze away and set my empty mug on the counter, stomping for the front door.
I pause with my hand on the knob. "Cammy Reynolds runs a B-and-B up on Minnetonka near the country club. I happen to know she has a room open, and she serves a hell of a breakfast spread, according to what I hear tourists saying."
"Cole, I—"
"Lace, I've gotta work. I'm already running late and won't get a shower as it is.
" I open the door and wince as a blast of cold wind ruffles my hair and carves over my cheekbones and rushes past my ears.
"If you decide to stick around town, and if you were inclined to explain…
fucking anything…I promise to at least hear you out.
I won't beg, though. I've survived fifteen years without an answer.
I'd like one, I won't lie, but I won't beg you for one. "
She nods, not meeting my eyes. "I wasn't planning on coming here, Cole.
I'm not trying to…" She trails off, lets out a short, sharp breath through her nose, and starts over.
"I'll find you. I know I owe you an explanation, and if nothing else, you have my promise that before I leave Three Rivers, you'll get one. "
I nod once. "Good enough for me." I try my damndest to bite back the words on my tongue, but they tumble out anyway. "You look amazing, Lace. Really. And I am sorry for whatever happened to bring you up here like this."
She nods. "I'll see you later, Cole."
The rest of the day is as busy as any of them are, which is to say very.
It's a blessing and a curse, as always; on one hand, a busy day for me means I don't have time to think or feel any of the shit swirling around between Lacey and me, but on the other hand, a busy day for me means others are having a bad day.
By the time I've wrapped up work and left the office, it's already past seven in the evening. Part of me wants to just go home, crack a beer, and watch ESPN highlights until I get drowsy. But another part of me can't stand the idea of another night home alone.
I'm stopped at a stoplight a block from the office, waiting for the green; a left turn takes me home, a straight turn takes me elsewhere. The Cellar? The Borderline?
The idea of sitting alone at a bar nursing a whiskey, knowing I'm driving home and can't have more than one? Sipping a beer and hoping an attractive single girl gives me a look?
Nah.
I tap my blinker stalk down, committing mentally to going home. Which, of course, is when my phone buzzes.
Busy?
Just got off.
Come over. You can get off again.
Before I can reply, she adds one of those purple grinning devil emojis.
OMW
I cancel the left blinker and head north when the light turns, feeling a certain stirring in my loins as I cruise along the shoreline towards Heidi's place.
Heidi Lawrence is a dispatcher and part-time volunteer firefighter in a tiny municipality called Miller's Landing, thirty minutes north of Three Rivers.
It's a blink-and-you-miss-it place where the one stoplight in town switches to a flashing yellow at ten p.m., and they all but roll up the sidewalks at night.