Chapter 1
Chapter One
Wyn
Present
Technically, I’m not dead. But it fucking feels like I’m on its doorstep when my heart stops for what feels like a power ballad after being startled awake by a rapid succession of closed-fist knocks.
I suck in a breath, sitting up. My left arm is asleep from the awkward angle it’s been draped on the toilet paper holder.
My cheek is sore, nearly numb from the cold marble sink it was resting on.
“Are you alright in there?” a woman’s voice calls out, followed by another hurried knock on the other side of the door.
I stand too quickly, shifting in front of the mirror, rendering me lightheaded as the haziness blacks out the edges of my vision.
I squeeze my eyes closed and take a slow breath.
When I exhale, I lean against the sink, elbows locked straight as I stare at my reflection.
“Fucking brilliant,” I whisper sarcastically, confirming that I look as great as I feel.
Smudged mascara, nothing left of my long-lasting lip stain except a line edging my lips that somehow makes me look paler than I should for late August, and a nice little same-day hangover headache lingering just behind my right eye socket.
I turn my head and spot a crease along my cheek.
I rub my fingers along the indentation, trying to erase the evidence of my mid-party power nap.
“All good,” I sing song, like it’s totally normal for a woman in her mid-thirties to get tipsy and then sleep it off in the bathroom. “I’ll be right out.”
What time is it? I turn over my phone to check—Fuck me. Blinking hard, I focus on the blurry glow of 1:26 a.m. Below it, there’s a wall of texts from my sisters in response to the rescue request I sent nearly two hours ago.
WYN
I need a ride.
STEVIE
I got pulled into covering at the bar tonight.
Jo, will you go pick her up?
JO
I am literally next to you watching you text this and there’s a crowd stacked 4 rows deep of drunks and cranky bikers. Neither of us is going anywhere any time soon.
STEVIE
Text mom.
JO
Again, do you need your eyes checked? She’s on the shot swing.
I wasn’t going to text my mother anyway. The last thing she said to me was that “I’m always so predictable.” I told her she was a narcissist, to which she replied, “At least I’m not boring.” I swallow the guilt of hating her again.
STEVIE
Sorry Wynnie. Go a little wild, call a rideshare.
JO
Come to the bar before you go home.
A bachelor party just walked in and Stevie has that ready-to-stir-some-shit look in her eyes.
I sniff out a laugh. I missed them more than .
. . I look up, trying to coax back the tears from falling.
I should go to the bar. I didn’t like leaving after an argument—life’s too short, despite wanting to flip Lu Crowne off regularly.
I thought I’d never see any of them again, never mind hear them laugh or listen as they continue to make the most ridiculous life choices.
And then, by some karma-level turn of events, life threw me a curveball. Again.
A shiver runs across my skin and settles low. Goosebumps track up my arms, but it’s not from nerves or panic. It’s the kind that has my cheeks warming and thinking about a different place. An entirely different life. About him.
Swiping to the rideshare app, I find that there isn’t a car available for at least thirty-five minutes. Superior timing, Wyn.
I turn the faucet on long enough to mimic handwashing, dip my wrists under the cool water, and then press my palms against my cheeks. My face is flushed, and the lingering buzz will give me just enough courage to pretend like this didn’t happen.
“Wyn,” my boss’s voice calls out. Tonight’s host and head of the university's chemistry department knocks again, just as I swing open the door. “Are you alright?”
Giving her a smile, I say, “Your wife’s spritzers were too good.” Smiling and playing off the fact that I just took a nap in her half bath, I add, “I’m so sorry if I wandered for too long.”
She flaps her hand at me like that was a wild thing to say, and then loops her arm with mine. “Not at all. There were so many people here, I feel like I barely had a chance to talk with you. I thought you’d left, and I wanted to say again how thrilled I am to have you back.”
I didn’t think I’d return to work. At least not right away.
But small counties have an impeccable way of rolling out townie news like thunder from a summer storm.
Quiet at first, and then fast, furious, and without invitation.
Before I could consider the audacity of declining, I had my position at the university back—tenure isn’t taken lightly in academia, and damn did I work my ass off for it.
So when tonight’s host said, “Wyn, we’re going to throw a little welcome back party in your honor,” I was appreciative.
But now, I can’t get out of here fast enough.
I smile and awkwardly wave at my boss. She leans in for a hug, just as I raise my hand.
Turning on my heel, I tell her, “Lovely party,” as I side-eye four of my colleagues playing an intense game of Catan in the dining room.
Two of our department secretaries linger in the foyer, speaking quietly about something or other.
I give them a smile and half wave as I keep walking, trying to avoid being pulled into whatever it is they’re gossiping about.
The moment I step outside, it’s like an open-handed slap of skin-slicking humidity.
My blouse sticks to my lower back, as if sweat was readying itself to flee from my pores as soon as I remembered it’s August. I hated it and missed it all at once.
I tilt my chin up and close my eyes, hoping for a wave of relaxation to wash over me.
I should’ve opted for a maxi dress instead of my typical work attire.
I’m not sure what it is about chiffon and tweed that says, well-respected chemistry professor to me, but it works.
I slid into the clothes and persona as if I had never left—like memorable armor, or a mask.
Right now, though, I want breathable cotton, the less the better.
I work my fingers through the first two buttons of my blouse before I hear a deep voice cut in from my right. “Thought you left, Dr. Crowne.”
I practically choke, shuffling to my left. “Holy fucking shit,” I rush out. My mouth tilts up into a smile as soon as I realize I’m okay and who it is. “Reed,” I say on an exhale. “I didn’t see you there.”
“And I didn’t know you had such a colorful vocabulary, Wyn,” he says in an amused tone. His gaze flicks to the sharp weapon gripped in my hand. Catching me off guard isn’t safe for anyone.
I glance down at it. A matte-black metal cat head with finger-size eyeholes where my middle and ring finger fit snugly, and razor-sharp pointed ears that protrude perfectly to puncture skin with the right amount of force.
As I shift my weapon into my back pocket, he passes me my phone that fumbled to the ground when he caught me off guard.
The rideshare app displays the abysmal arrival time just as it buzzes, and then powers down, turning black and flashing the dead battery logo. “You’ve got to be kidding?—”
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride,” he says in that warm country drawl of his, nodding toward a black Porsche Cayenne.
From afar, Dr. Reed Andrews looks like an upgraded version of the man I once knew.
Instead of golf polos and baggy cargo pants, now he wears a crisp white Oxford button-down and well-fitted suit pants.
His sandy-blond hair is short and nearly buzzed at the sides, with tousled waves impeccably styled along the top, and his smile is kind above a cleanly shaved jawline.
“That’s yours?” I ask, smirking at the car he’s moving toward. I’ve always looked at those fancy cars and thought: Someone’s trying a little too hard.
He smirks right back. “Jealous?”
My eyebrows pinch as I laugh out, “It screams finance bro, or at the very least, I won my fantasy football league three years in a row.”
“Two years.” He chuckles, knocking on the roof of it. “Want a ride?”
“It’s fine,” I say, waving off his offer. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel seeing him again. Everyone I knew moved on with their lives.
I clear my throat again. “I’m living in Rumor now, closer to where my family lives. It’s a bit out of your?—”
“Wyn, I don’t mind,” he says, leaning on his open door with a soft smile. “I’ve been out that way plenty of times, and I’ve got nowhere else to be at this hour. I’m a bit of a night owl.” Looking at his phone, he taps away at the screen.
I need to get out of this heat, and my head already hurts from the lack of something greasy. I’ll have to let at least one of my sisters know I got home safely. And maybe Lu is still wrapping up at the bar—she owes me an apology.
I nod, making my way down the front stairs, thinking about how this is the second time tonight Reed’s managed to rescue me.
“Isn’t that clever, Professor?” my colleague asks.
The smile I’ve been faking falters. My fingers tingle, and a cold chill runs up my spine and down my arms.
Don’t pass out.
“Prof-professor?” another voice stutters, and nausea takes shape.
Four pairs of eyes study me, trying their damndest to politely ignore the fact that I had been on a leave of absence that had started as a missing persons case nearly three years ago.
And despite being back, having to only share that my case was confidential and I was unable to share more, a part of me feels like I don’t belong here anymore, that this part of me is still missing.
I had my job again—it’s a luxury, truthfully, but my desire to dive into work, the passion I had for it, didn’t follow me home.
“A published article from that long ago should not still impact grant distribution . . .”