Chapter 20
twenty
“Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark…” - Ayn Rand
Cole pounded down his usual running route like he was trying to outrun the mess inside his own head. Normally the looping roads and sloping hills burned the edge off, but today his mind ran faster than his legs.
And every one of his thoughts boiled down to one thing: Jocelyn.
He wondered how she’d slept after the fire. Hell, if she’d slept. Wondered where she’d laid her head. Wondered if she’d thought about their last fight, or if she was preparing to shut him down when he offered help again.
Finally, he wondered if she’d given up. But, no. Her reaction was burned into his memory—that was the kind of mad that didn’t cool off. The kind that kept you moving. She hadn’t come back here to fold. She came hunting answers, and she wasn’t leaving ‘til she had them.
He barreled through the old mill district, the dead brick factories crouched like watchmen in the shadows. Felt like a ghost town these days.
He pushed harder, lungs heaving as the road tipped uphill into the canopy of trees. Sun and shadow striped across his skin like paint strokes, carrying him out toward the crooked cluster of homes on the other side.
That’s when he heard it. Voices sharp enough to cut over the bass thumping in his headphones. Arguing.
He might’ve kept on—small-town drama wasn’t his business—if not for the car in the drive with North Carolina plates. Jocelyn.
A jolt of electricity shot through him, and he was veering before he’d even thought about it. He tugged his earbuds out, stuffing them in his pocket, and cut up the gravel drive. And there it was: Jocelyn’s voice.
“I just wanted to—”
“I said get off my damn property!” That was Ned Turner, plain as day. Old and mean, all bile and bluster.
“Mr. Turner, please,” Jocelyn said, desperation in her voice.
“I ain’t repeatin’ myself, girl,” Ned growled. “You wanna know about that fire, talk to your daddy. He was there that day.”
She lurched forward, hands outstretched. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. I saw your daddy’s fancy car, sittin’ slick in the driveway like it belonged there. Now get off my damn property. This is a stand-your-ground state, and I got my shotgun right here.”
Cole’s blood surged. His jog broke into a sprint. “Hey!”
Both of them whipped toward him.
“You best watch yourself, Ned,” Cole barked, clenching his fists around air instead of Ned Turner’s bloated neck.
“Watch your own self, Hauser.” Ned glared, but he backed into the house, slamming the door so hard the windowpanes rattled.
Jocelyn’s face was drawn with fury—and not a little bit of fear. Cole slipped a hand around her arm, tugging her back toward the car.
“That man is crazy,” she sputtered, voice jagged with leftover adrenaline.
“Nah,” Cole muttered, keeping a keen eye on that front door. “Just an asshole. But assholes with guns aren’t worth stickin’ around for.”
She let him steer her to the car, that healthy fear doing its job. Her hair caught sunlight like embers, and she wore the same clothes as yesterday, though freshly washed. She looked fierce, and worn, and damn stubborn.
Cole guided her to the driver’s side then went to the passenger side door, yanking it open.
She stopped short, glaring. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Ridin’ back with you.” He arched a brow, daring her to argue.
Her mouth pinched, but she said nothing and slid behind the wheel. He climbed in after her, relief loosening his shoulders as she threw the car into reverse. The tires crunched over gravel too fast, and his hand went to the overhead bar as they shot out onto the road.
“Why were you at Ned Turner’s?” he asked, voice steady despite the way she was whipping around the curves.
“Same question,” she fired back, focus trained on the asphalt like it might buck her if she blinked.
He let out a slow breath, deciding to give her his truth first as a peace offering. “Out for my run, heard him jawin’ at you. Figured I’d better check.”
“Felt like rescuing me, you mean.” The teeth she put into the words didn’t have the same bite when her nerves gave her away.
Still, his hackles rose. “Give me a break, Jocelyn. He threatened you. You’re damn lucky I came along when I did.”
That earned him a sharp look, her lips pressed tight.
“Turner’s always been mean as a snake, but you got him riled.” When she didn’t respond, Cole pressed, “Get any answers?”
“Besides that jab about my father, no. He shut down the second he saw me. Looking like my mama doesn’t exactly help my case.”
She meant it serious, but the sulky tilt of her words made Cole bark a laugh before he could stop it.
Her glare had his humor drying up. “Sorry. Bad timing.”
She whipped the car to a stop in front of the Nail, dropping it into park but leaving the engine running.
“Come inside,” he said.
She sliced him with a look, apparently not keen on the invite.
“Don’t open for hours yet. Just—come inside, Jocelyn. I wanna talk.”
She studied him a beat longer before killing the engine. Purse in hand, she followed him in.
Cole flipped on the low lights, and led her upstairs.
What hit him inside his apartment was something he wasn’t prepared for.
It was the sight of her in his own space.
She wandered, gaze touching details and taking in everything like she was cataloging evidence.
When her eyes slid back to him, softer now, it damn near knocked the air out of his lungs.
For a second, he wanted nothing more than to cross the room, drag her close, and kiss her until the world burned out.
Her head tilted when she caught his expression, a puzzled look dancing across her face. “What?”
Cole grunted, tearing his eyes away. “Nothin’. Gimme five minutes.”
He ducked into the bathroom before he lost all his sense, showering quick and cold, yanking on clean clothes as quick as his damp skin allowed.
When he came back out, he found her standing over by the island that separated the dining area from the kitchen, running long, slender fingers over the counter top. It was another slab of cedar, the twin to the bar top downstairs.
Awe was painted across her face as sunlight blazed in, caressing her cheek and setting her hair on fire, pulling out the red.
He wanted to release it from the braid she’d pulled it into, watch it drag across the counter top as she leaned down to inspect the swirling grain in the wood.
He wanted to tangle his fingers in it, brush it back over her shoulders, let it fan out around her as he laid her down on his bed.
No.
With effort, he shook the image from his mind and stalked into the kitchen.
“What’d you wanna talk about?” she asked, voice as unsteady as he felt.
Cole busied himself with the ritual of pouring coffee, taking comfort in the familiarity. He lifted the pot to offer her some.
She shook her head. “I had some at my uncle’s.”
That raised his brows as he replaced the pot. “Your uncle’s.”
He heard her smile and turned to drink it in. There was disbelief in the layers of her expression, buried under all the history that belonged to her and not him. He’d heard just enough from gossip to have an inkling, but the details were out of his reach.
The craving to be invited there, to know it all, was as strong as the one he fought daily for movement and busyness.
“I went out to Joe’s last night, after…” She shifted and cleared her throat. “I couldn’t believe it.” She gave him a hard look. “Did you know?”
He leaned back against the counter. “Knew he got sober a while back. Wasn’t until recently that I saw how he did it.”
She shook her head. “It’s incredible. I wish Nan could see it.”
“Why can’t she?”
Jocelyn snorted. “A lot of people have let her down, and Joe was the last in a very long line. Old age and experience have robbed her of a forgiving heart.”
“Hm.”
She squinted at him. “You keep distracting me.”
Same, he thought wryly.
“So?”
He cleared his throat. “I wanna help with your investigation.”
Her fingers tightened on the edges of the island. “You want to help.” Those words—flat, dangerous—warned him of the risk he was taking.
“Yeah,” he said, standing his ground. “You already shared some of it with me. Why not go one step more? Figure having somebody local, you might have some better luck.”
Her eyes flashed. “You think I can’t handle it alone. That I’m too much of an outsider.”
Heat flared through him, but his voice stayed level. “Not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant,” she bit out, leaning forward.
He leaned forward, too, frustration sparking. “Jocelyn, Ned Turner threatened you today. What if I hadn’t been there?”
“I would’ve left,” she shot back. Her voice didn’t waver, but her eyes did.
“And what if he hadn’t backed off?”
The space between them shrank again. The island wasn’t wide, and suddenly her gaze dropped to his mouth. His blood roared in response, fingers tightening on the handle of his mug.
“I suppose you think that because your dad saved me back then, it’s your turn now?” Those words were warning smoke over his lips because what she said next burned: “You’ve got a savior complex, Cole.”
The words hit hard, and he jerked back, hot coffee splashing out of his cup to scald his chest.
He hissed.
Jocelyn scrambled around the island for the paper towels, swiping at his shirt until he caught her wrist, holding her hand still.
“That hurts,” he ground out.
“Sorry.” She pulled her hand from his grip and took a step back.
He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Her gaze followed, cheeks flooding pink, her expression caught between apology and something else he couldn't afford to dwell on.
“All I need’s a new shirt,” Cole muttered, brushing past her, heat in his skin from more than just the burn.
When he came back, she was by the window, arms wrapped around herself as she stared out over First Street. For a moment, he just watched her, unsure what the hell to say next.
She felt him there and turned to give him a rounded stare. “I’m sorry. For what I said.”
“Is it what you think?”
“No. Yes.” Her mouth twisted. “Maybe. I just hate feeling… like I can’t do things for myself.”
Cole shook his head. “No one’s saying you can’t. And I sure as hell don’t think that.”
“Then why offer to help?”
“Because if that fire was on purpose, someone’s still tryin’ to bury the past. And I don’t like the thought of you without somebody watchin’ your back.”