Chapter 21 #2
The Memory Chest is quieter, a different kind of busy.
The moment I step through the door, the scent of old paper and cedar hits me, and the hum of nostalgia wraps around me.
Rows of shelves stretch deep, crammed with everything from antique toys to vinyl records to delicate glass figurines.
I wander slowly, letting myself get lost in the aisles.
Bits and pieces tug me back to my own childhood—a worn teddy bear, a stack of Nancy Drew mysteries, a puzzle missing one piece. But I’m not here for me.
I’m here for him.
I search for what feels like forever, weaving in and out of aisles until my throat catches on a squeal. There it is. The gift I wasn’t sure still existed, something so perfectly, uniquely Penn, I want to clutch it to my chest and never let go. I snatch it up, heart thudding.
And then I turn.
Straight into Dylan.
Again.
What the ever-loving hell?
“What are you doing here?” The words snap out before I can swallow them. My stomach plunges, instinct telling me this is no coincidence. Did he overhear me mention Rutledge to Belinda? Did he follow me?
He laughs, easy, casual. “I’m the mayor of this town. Had to check on something at the office.”
My gaze skims the store. “Where’s Sloane?”
“She’s back at the inn. Still not feeling well.” His eyes flicker to the box in my hands. “I popped in for some shopping, thought I spotted you. What’ve you got there?”
I tighten my grip. “Just last-minute things. I’m done now.” I step to move past him.
He shifts easily in beside me. “I’m headed out too.”
I keep my tone light, though unease prickles the back of my neck. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
His smile is thin, sharp. “Not yet. But there’s still time.”
I pay quickly, shoving my purchase into the bag. He lingers close enough that I feel the heat of his presence, and my skin crawls. When I push through the door into the sharp night air, he follows.
“Let me walk you to your car. It’s dark out.”
“I’m fine, Dylan.”
“I’m sure Penn would appreciate me making sure you got there safely.”
I pick up my pace. By the time I reach my car, I’m borderline jogging. I toss the bags into the trunk, slam it shut, and circle toward the driver’s seat. Dylan’s voice cuts me off.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
My heart stutters. I whirl. “What?”
He points at the ground. “Your tire. It’s flat.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Do you have a spare?”
“In the trunk.” I shove past him, pop the latch, but when I circle around, my stomach sinks.
“Oh no.”
“What now?”
I squat, pressing my palm to my other back tire. The rubber sags beneath my touch, limp and useless.
“This one’s flat too.”
Dylan squats beside me, phone already out, his flashlight beam cutting across the sagging rubber. “Damn,” he mutters, running the light along the gash. “Looks like they’ve been cut.”
A cold knot coils in my stomach. My first instinct is Penn. Call Penn. “How could this even happen?”
Dylan makes a low tsk and shakes his head, scanning up and down the street as if the culprit might still be lurking.
The crowd here is thinner than it was earlier, people rushing to finish their shopping before night closes in.
“Kids these days,” he says finally. “Lot of mischief going around lately.”
“Should I call the police?”
“They won’t do much.” His shrug is dismissive, practiced.
“Then I’ll call Penn—”
“Nah.” His interruption is smooth, casual, but firm. “No need to drag him out here tonight. He’s watching the game, isn’t he?”
I glance at the ground, unease prickling the back of my neck. “Yeah, but—”
“I’ll call a tow truck.”
I shake my head, already fishing for my phone.
“I have Triple A.” My thumb fumbles across the screen until I find the number.
I rattle off the location to the operator, then tuck the phone away.
“Half an hour,” I say, exhaling. “Thanks for walking me out. You might as well head back to Snowberry. I’ll grab a coffee while I wait. ”
“I’ll give you a ride home.” He jerks his chin toward his car parked a few spaces down.
“No thanks. I can catch a ride with the driver.”
His smile doesn’t budge. “Then I’ll wait with you. Keep you company.”
“Suit yourself.”
I stride down the sidewalk and duck into the nearest café, grateful for the blast of heat and the hum of conversation. Through the wide front windows, I can still see my car under the streetlight. At least it’s in plain sight.
“I’ll grab us coffee,” Dylan says, heading for the counter.
I sink into a chair, fingers worrying my phone. Penn. I don’t want to pull him away from the game, don’t want to make him walk back to the inn to fetch his car, but I do want him to know. It’s instinct already, checking in with him. Like we’re a real couple.
I type a quick message. Flat tire. Called Triple A. Waiting at café in Rutledge.
Fifteen seconds later, my phone rings. Relief sweeps through me at the sight of his name.
“Hey,” I say, smiling despite myself. “You didn’t have to call. Everything’s under control.”
“Are you okay? I can come get you.” His voice is steady but tight, protective.
“No.” The one word comes out soft. Honestly, just hearing his voice has calmed me. “You’re with the guys, and you caught a ride with Jaxon. Don’t worry about me. Besides, you’d have to walk back to the inn for your car.”
“Jay.” His voice is low, almost offended. “You think a walk is trouble? I’m coming.”
“No,” I say again, firmer this time, though my chest swells at his insistence. “I’m okay. Really. I just wanted you to know.”
Rustling filters through the line. “I’m already putting on my coat. I’ll fix your tire.”
My throat tightens, emotion pressing hot behind my eyes. God, the way he doesn’t hesitate. “No, you can’t. It’s actually two tires. Someone punctured them. So please. Stay. I promise I’m fine. The tow truck will be here any minute.”
That’s when Dylan’s voice cuts through the cozy café hum, loud enough to carry across the table, and the phone line. “Wasn’t sure how you liked it,” he says, setting down a steaming paper cup. He drops a couple of creamers and artificial sweeteners beside it. The ones I never use.
Penn’s voice drops an octave. “Is that Dylan?”
Guilt—stupid, unnecessary guilt—flashes through me. I force a light laugh. “Yes. I ran into him at the store. I’m in Rutledge,” I explain, too quickly. Why does this feel like I’m defending myself?
“Rutledge?”
“There was a shop I wanted to hit.”
“What’s Dylan doing there?”
“He said mayor business.”
A beat. Then, rougher, “I bet he did.”
I don’t miss the edge in his voice—jealousy, distrust—and though part of me appreciates it, I hate that Dylan has us both on edge. I dislike him. I distrust him. I just hope Penn knows he can trust me. Even if, God help me, I sound a little guilty for no reason at all.
“He’s going to stay with me until the truck comes.”
“Okay.”
“Are you having a good time with the guys?” I ask, injecting enthusiasm into my voice.
“Yeah, it’s all good.”
I lift the lid from my coffee, an uncomfortable knot in my stomach at how strained the conversation is becoming. “Okay, I’ll see you later then.”
“Keep me posted.”
I wait a beat, hoping he’ll say more, but the line clicks dead. For some reason, that silence weighs heavier than words ever could. Without saying anything, I stand, snag two sugar packets from the counter, and return to my table. Dylan’s eyes track me the whole way, sharp, calculating.
“That was Penn,” he says.
Not that it’s any of his damn business. “Yes.”
“Did you tell him you were in good hands?”
I arch a brow and shake my head, refusing to dignify his smug question with an answer. I stir my coffee, keep my eyes fixed on the window, my car still in view. Silence stretches between us, taut as a wire as we sip.
“How does Sloane take her coffee?” I ask, and his brows pull together.
“That’s a strange question.”
“Just curious.” He doesn’t answer, which is, in itself, an answer, as his gaze strays to the window. I turn, and relief floods me when the tow truck pulls up sooner than expected.
“They’re here.” I leap to my feet, dump my empty coffee cup in the recycling bin, and hurry outside. After talking with the driver, I ask if I can catch a lift. But when I open the cab door and see the mess of tools—and another guy already in the passenger seat—I freeze.
“You can’t ride in there,” Dylan says smoothly, almost too quickly. “Come on. I’ll take you. I’ll get you home safely.”
I hesitate, but practicality wins. “Fine.”
The second I slide into his car, I angle my body toward the door, as far from him as possible. He merges into traffic, the hum of the tires filling the silence until he decides to break it.
“You know,” he says with a casual laugh, “I thought you and Penn might have been faking an engagement.”
My heart trips. I school my face into neutrality. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says, though his tone suggests he doesn’t buy it. “I thought maybe you were trying to make me jealous.”
“You thought wrong.”
Partly. None of this was to make him jealous.
Rather it was so I didn’t look like such a failure, a girl who couldn’t make it outside of Snowberry.
But at the end of the day, why did I even care what he thought?
I shake my head, angry with myself. Although, I’m not angry that I’ve gotten to know Penn, not at all angry about the time we’ve been spending together.
“It worked,” he says with a smile.
I roll my eyes. “I’m with Penn.”
“You and me,” Dylan starts ignoring me, and I almost shut him down, because there is no ‘you and me’. But he rushes on. “We could have been something.”
Don’t engage.
Don’t engage.
“Maybe you should have thought about that before sticking your tongue down Tamara’s throat.”
Why am I engaging?
“Come on, that didn’t mean anything.”