Chapter 18
Jenna
“Molly?” I say, gently, tapping my pen on the margins of her paper. “I think we need to expand the outline and add more detail.”
She blinks at me from across the table in her father’s house, then looks at the paper, then at me again. “Yeah, sorry.” Her phone has been going off constantly since we sat down tonight.
I sigh but keep my demeanor pleasant. “If you’re not feeling up to this tonight, we don’t have to keep going.”
Her shoulders fall, as she shakes her head.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m lost on paragraph three.
” She points to her outline. “I thought I had it figured out, like what people assume from the outside looking in, and how our internal state can be so much different from how people see us… But it’s like… That’s all I have to say about it.”
I shift in the chair. “Hmm… I think you have more to say. What elements go into that judgment? And what causes people to misinterpret?”
“I don’t know,” Molly deadpans. “I guess it’s a lot of things. People think I’m a stuck up, overachieving nerd.”
“Or maybe that’s what you think people see?”
She lets out a groan, slumping and resting her chin against her hand. “I don’t know. But I can vouch that everyone thinks I’m the girl with the weird, scary dad.”
I raise my brows. “And why do you think he’s scary? He seems pretty normal to me.”
She makes a face. “No, normal dad’s actually freaking smile sometimes, and he’s always running around with different guys, and most of them are creepy as fuck.”
“I mean…” I start to go into an explanation about my own dad, but her phone buzzes on the table. She snatches it up, reads the text, and instantly turns to me, eyes wide and panicked. “Sorry, I really have to take this. Can I—?”
“Go for it,” I say, but she’s already up and moving, stepping away and out of earshot.
I set down the essay and look around the kitchen. It’s immaculate, every surface wiped, every mug hung by size and color. There’s a collection of knives on a magnetic strip above the stove, each blade gleaming, arranged smallest to largest. Even the trash can is lined up square with the cabinet.
Calvin Bradford never misses a step.
And that makes me nervous, like toying with him might be the worst decision ever. Which means I know he knows someone broke into his house. There’s no way in hell he overlooked a busted window. My eyes jump to the office door, where I know he’s disappeared to, allowing us unusual space.
“Sorry, Dr. Williams,” Molly interrupts my thoughts suddenly, magically appearing back in the kitchen.
“If it’s okay, I think I’m going to cut this short.
It’s a stupid family thing. I have to go to my mom’s.
” She wrings her hands in front of her, and rocks back on her heels, giving me the saddest apology face.
“No problem,” I say softly. “We made some progress. That counts for something.”
“Thank you so much.” She yanks her backpack off the chair, doesn’t bother to zip it, and hustles out the front door, letting it slam behind her.
And just like that, I’m alone in the Bradford house.
Well, with Calvin.
I stare at my empty mug of coffee, at the kitchen that isn’t mine, and feel a wild, irrational panic as I think about the last time I was here.
I should leave. I should pack up my things and bolt to the safety of my car, because every cell in my body says I am trespassing in a way that is way worse than what I did a few nights ago.
He knows I’m here, and for some reason, my bravery is feeling less potent with that…
But running is not how I find Cade.
And before I can decide what to do, the office door opens with a bang that makes me jump. I immediately stand to my feet, suddenly finding the will to move.
Bradford emerges, phone pressed to his ear, and walks straight to the kitchen without seeing me. He pours a glass of water, drinks half in a gulp, then turns and actually flinches when he sees me at the table. He pulls his phone from his ear and shoves it into his pocket.
I force a smile. “Sorry. Molly got called away. I was just getting my things together to leave.” I tuck a strand of my blonde hair that’s fallen out of my clip, and then smooth out my black sweater.
He studies me for a beat, and I have the insane impression that his eyes are like an X-ray machine. “Why did she leave?”
“She said a family thing? Her mom’s?”
His jaw ticks, his eyes trailing down my arms to where I’m white knuckling the essay style guide I brought. “They always have a dinner once a week. I’m sure her mom didn’t want her to miss it. She’s picky about that shit.” His eyes jump back to mine.
“Makes sense,” I choke out. I’m terrified to drop my eyes from his—to take in his broad shoulders beneath his black pearl snap shirt, or the strong quads beneath his dark bootcut jeans.
But my breath hitches the moment his lips part.
“Where did you say you were from?”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Texas, born and raised.”
He grunts, as if the state itself is a mark against me. “You don’t talk like you’re from Texas.”
“You do.”
That earns me a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I grew up in the eastern part of the state You?”
“Northwest.”
“Like Lubbock?”
My insides go cold, but I don’t let it show. “Dalhart,” I partially lie. I mean, I’ve been there plenty of times. So, that’s good enough.
He nods, cracking his jaw. “And why here?”
I let myself make a face at him. “Why anywhere? A job.”
“Huh.” He narrows his gaze. “I guess so.”
The banter, such as it is, goes flat. I break the moment by finishing packing my things and make a show of zipping my bag. This man freaking drains my ability to think, I swear.
“You want to know why I like my job?” he asks, out of nowhere, his voice running down my spine.
I look up, the tension in his gaze unnerving. “Why’s that?”
He steps closer, leaving only a foot or so of space between us. “It’s not about the trees. It’s about the land. See, the land keeps score, always, Dr. Williams. Every cut, every burn, every lie you put into it—eventually it gives it all back. It shows what’s beneath.”
I stare at him, studying his cold expression. “Maybe that’s true of everything.”
“You’re right. You reap what you sow.” He’s so close now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He leans forward, and I catch my breath, but as I brace for contact, he picks up a pen I missed.
“Here,” he leans away, holding it out. “You might need this.” He rolls it between his fingers.
I exhale, clearing my throat awkwardly in the process. “Thank you.”
He gives me the most neutral, curt tip of his head.
“I should go,” I mutter, voice barely audible. All my courage has drained right out of my body as he towers above me. To think, I fucking broke into this man’s house a few days ago blindly. I squeeze my fingers together of my still-healing hand, suddenly aware.
He steps away from me, gesturing to the door. “I apologize for my daughter skipping out on you like she did. That wasn’t professional.”
“No worries. She’s just a kid. Still trying to figure it out.”
“She’s lucky she didn’t have to grow up fast.” He lets me pass, but as I squeeze by, his hand brushes mine. It’s quick, accidental, but it leaves a spark that jumps straight to my chest.
And I fumble with the door, half expecting him to stop me.
Outside, the air is colder than before. I make it halfway to my car before I realize his eyes are still on me.
“Have a nice evening,” I call out to him as I pop the door open.
He gives me a curt nod. “See you around, Dr. Williams. Stay safe out there, and I sure hope that hand of yours heals.”
Oh fuck.