Chapter Two #3
I’d grown up with him. The antique store owner’s son.
The golden boy of Hickory Hollow—valedictorian, scholarship magnet, the guy who’d made AP coursework look like light reading while I’d mainlined caffeine and flash cards to keep up.
Everyone had assumed he’d leave town in a blaze of academic glory.
But he hadn’t. He’d stayed. I’d never understood why—and I hadn’t exactly stuck around to ask.
And now here he was, strolling back into my life with a fake name and a flirty smile.
Why?
Heat flared under my skin. I crumpled the paper in my fist and surged to my feet. The screen door did its familiar bang-bang-bang as I stormed onto the porch.
Owen—Mac, whatever he was calling himself these days—was still leaning against his truck. When I barreled out of the house, he straightened and headed towards me, that same bright smile snapping into place like a reflex.
He hadn’t left. He’d waited.
“You’re Owen McAllister,” I said.
My tone could have stripped paint.
His smile faltered. Color crept up his neck. “You figured it out.”
“We went to school together,” I said, descending the steps until we were a breath apart. “I’ve known you all my life. You jerk face. You lied to me. Mac is your father. Mr. McAllister.”
“Hang on a second.” He lifted his hands like he could physically push back my anger. “I didn’t lie.”
“When did you start calling yourself Mac?” I shot back. “When you saw me on the side of the road and decided to have a little fun? You sorry—”
“Piper—”
“Oh, my bad. Did I call you a name?” I waved the crumpled letter at him. “Poor baby. You’ll live. It’s bad enough you messed with me, but my aunt thinks someone murdered her. She told me so. In this letter.”
His eyes widened. “She thought that?”
“She knew something was wrong.” My voice shook, but I powered through it. I took the steps until we were nose-to-nose—well, as close as we could get with him a head taller. “She wants me to find the killer.”
“How are you going to do that?” he asked softly.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “I have no idea. Do I look like someone who reads the future in tea leaves? Or Sherlock Holmes?”
He snorted. “No. You’re much prettier.”
“Don’t try that with me.” I shoved at his shoulder with my free hand. “Compliments are not going to get you out of this. I hate lies, Owen. I hate them.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. And annoyingly, he sounded like he meant it. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you who I was. I guess I wanted to see if you remembered me. I hoped you would.”
Oh, I remembered him.
He’d been the boy all the girls had secretly plotted to marry. He’d been the impossible curve-setter in every class. He’d been the person I’d silently competed against for years and never managed to beat.
He’d also been the boy I’d harbored a mortifying crush on for the last two years of high school.
Not that I was telling him that. Let him sweat.
“I saw you yesterday at the funeral,” he said.
“Why didn’t you talk to me then?”
“Didn’t seem right,” he said, glancing away toward the yard. “With all your family around. I didn’t go to the graveside.” His gaze flicked back to me, warm and unnervingly earnest. “You sure looked pretty.”
Heat climbed my throat, traitorous and obvious. Words deserted me. That was twice now he’d complimented me and I didn’t know what to do with that.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked, looking like a kicked golden retriever.
I folded my arms, letter still clenched in my fist. “Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
His gaze drifted to my mouth, then back up to my eyes, lingering like he was tasting the thought of something he wasn’t brave enough to say.
“I could help you,” he said.
I barked a short laugh. “I don’t think so.” I turned toward the door.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t want anyone’s help.”
My hand closed on the doorknob.
“Piper, wait.”
I paused, looking back at him over my shoulder.
“If you change your mind,” he said, “let me know.”
“I think I’d like to be alone for a little while,” I replied. “Figure some stuff out.”
He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get to the antique store anyway. My dad’ll be looking for me.” He hesitated. “You have a cell phone?”
Suspicion and amusement wrestled inside me. “Yeah. Why?”
He climbed the steps, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my chin up. “Let me give you my number.”
Smooth. I had to give him that.
I dug my phone out of my bag and handed it over. His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and the brief, accidental touch sent a spark racing up my arm straight toward my chest.
He typed, then glanced up at me. “Hold on.”
A second later, my phone buzzed in his hand.
He passed the phone back. “There. Fair’s fair.”
Something warm and unexpected settled in my chest.
“If you need anything, call,” he said. “Anytime. Day or night.”
He held my gaze a heartbeat longer, then he headed for the truck.
I watched him climb in and drive away, dust kicking up behind his tires, the house and its secrets looming at my back.
Somewhere beneath the grief and the anger and the knot of fear over the word murder, something small and treacherous fluttered low in my stomach—an ember of attraction I absolutely did not have time for.