The Fake Fiance I Never Stopped Missing

Chapter One

Dylan

The bell over the door chimes, and I startle slightly before looking up from the deli meat I’m wrapping to a man hurrying inside the café.

I barely get a look at his face before he turns and closes the door behind him, but I catch enough of a glimpse of his gaunt features and hunted expression to realize two things—I’ve never seen the man in town before, and I’m about to be robbed.

God damn it! I should have locked up when I decided to close for the night.

He stands with his back to me, peering out at the dark street as if he’s watching for someone.

Though I’m not sure how much he can actually see.

Freezing rain has fallen steadily for the past hour, leaving a thin sheen of ice on the windows, distorting the world outside.

All I can make out through the glass is the warped yellow glow of the streetlights.

What’s he looking for? Probably potential witnesses who might try to stop whatever he has planned next.

Or maybe he’s waiting for someone else to help him.

I tense and slip my phone from the pocket of my jeans, dial 911, then set it on the counter so all I have to do is hit call if the situation goes bad.

I could probably handle this guy if it came to that.

He’s skinny, a few inches shorter than my own five-foot-nine inches and, from what I’ve briefly seen, young.

His ratty sweater and jeans are soaked and clinging to his thin frame, and his wet, dark hair is plastered to his skull.

I’m not a powerhouse or anything, but while I’m lean, I have more muscle than he does.

Of course, if he’s waiting on someone else, someone bigger...

“Hey,” I say. “Can I help you?”

His body jerks as if I’ve startled him. He drags his attention from the window, and his wary gaze meets mine.

I’m right about him being young. I’d bet he’s close to ten years younger than me.

While I still don’t recognize the man, which is unusual in Fieldstone—after a decade in this town, I know most everyone, if not personally, then by sight—there is a familiarity about him. I can’t place him.

“Is there a bathroom I can use?” His voice scrapes like a rusty hinge, but it’s deeper than I expected.

I think I’m wrong about his age. He’s probably in his early twenties, but not more than twenty-three.

I’d bet money on it. That wild, hunted look in his eyes makes him appear younger.

He doesn’t move away from the door, gripping the knob with one hand.

“Sure.” I nod at the door at the back of the café. “Just through there.”

“Thanks.” He’s twitchy and nervous. I hope he isn’t planning on getting high in there—or worse. He glances back over his shoulder at the window, and that’s when I notice the chain of bruises encircling his neck, peeking out past the stretched-out collar of his sweater.

My stomach drops in a cold, oily swoop. He’s not here to rob me, and he’s not waiting for someone else—or maybe he is, but it’s someone he’s running from—and that’s when it hits me, the reason he looks so familiar. He reminds me of myself.

Ten years ago, I staggered into this café battered and broke, with nothing to my name but the clothes on my back.

George had been working alone that night.

It had been raining then too, a frigid fall drizzle that clung to me, seeped through my clothes and iced my skin.

I’d been cold, down to the bone, my feet aching from walking endlessly in the dark.

When I’d pushed through the door, had George looked at me and assumed I was there for the contents of his cash register? If he had, he never let on. Instead, he sat me down, threw me a towel, and poured me a coffee.

The stranger hunches his shoulders and hurriedly shuffles into the bathroom, keeping his eyes averted as he passes me. Once I hear the lock click into place, I come out from behind the counter and look out the window in the door.

A thin sheen of ice clings to the glass near the frame, leaving a clear spot in the center.

I make out the road and the glowing yellow balls from the streetlights between the sidewalk and the curb.

Hard rain pelts the windows, and flakes of snow swirl past every time the wind kicks up.

If someone’s following him, there is no sign of anyone else out there.

The streets are empty. Not even a car in sight.

I frown. Where’s this guy’s car? How had he gotten here? Had he walked? Hitchhiked?

Something cold and dark slices through me, stealing my breath.

It’s not as late as it looks, with the storm keeping everyone at home. Under normal circumstances, I’d be open for nearly another two hours, but once the freezing rain started and my customers tapered off, I decided to close early.

The forecast calls for worsening conditions, with freezing rain giving way to snow later tonight.

The roads are already slick and icy, and the layer of snow they’re calling for won’t help.

I could always stay in the studio apartment upstairs.

I’ve been between tenants since Kelley Boyce moved to Oregon for university.

The apartment’s thrifted furniture and hand-me-down touches give it a cozy charm—and staying put means avoiding the icy roads entirely.

My cabin is only about ten minutes outside town, but the back roads through the woods are always the last to be plowed or salted.

And while I’m not eager to spend the evening hauling my ancient SUV out of a ditch after hitting black ice buried under fresh snow, I am looking forward to a fire, a glass of wine, and a good book to ride out the storm.

I roll my eyes and smirk at the thought.

God, I’m the oldest twenty-seven-year-old I know.

I’m back behind the counter and wrapping deli meat by the time the stranger leaves the bathroom, peeking his head out first as if to make sure no one else has come into the café.

“Thanks,” he says, edging toward the door.

“No problem. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Something to warm you up.” I hadn’t gotten to the part of my closing routine where I switched off the coffee maker and dumped what was left in the pot yet.

He hesitates, standing between the counter and the door, as if he’s torn between accepting my offer and bolting into the night. Finally, he shrugs. “Okay. Sure. Coffee, I guess.”

His words are low and stilted, and I wonder if it hurts him to talk. I pour coffee, and despite my best effort not to look, my gaze drifts to the bruises. They’re dark purple and fresh, and a sudden flash of anger beats inside me like a pulse. What the hell happened to this kid?

I set the mug on the counter in front of him, and he must have sensed my gaze because his shoulders hunched and color crept into his otherwise pale cheeks.

“How much?” he asks, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket.

“No charge.” I force myself to sound normal, almost cheerful. No hint of the dull fury building inside me like a gathering storm.

I’d had bruises on me too the night I’d found my way here after some asshole had robbed me of everything I owned and then tried to throw me into his trunk.

I’d managed to break free and then stayed hidden in the woods until I was sure he’d gone.

Ten years later and the world is still filled with predatory assholes.

To be fair, I don’t know how the kid got the bruises, and I might be projecting just a tad, but I can safely assume someone had done that to him, and, judging by the way he keeps looking back at the door, he’s afraid of that someone finding him now.

“I can pay for my own coffee.” He’s frowning, and I’m not sure if my offer offended him.

I shake my head. “I’m about to close up. I’d have dumped it down the sink, anyway.”

His dark brows arched, nearly lost beneath the damp hair tumbling across his forehead. “Oh... sorry... I didn’t realize... I can go.” He jerks his thumb towards the door, but I shake my head.

“Nah, you’re fine. Normally, I’d be open until eight, but with the weather...” I shrug. “I didn’t think anyone would be coming in tonight. How do you take it?”

“Black is fine.”

“Maybe, but you know you’re in a café.” I wave my hand like a game show hostess. “Milk, cream, sugar, sweetener, we have it all. Hell, I could have made you something fancier. It’s kind of what we do.”

His mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to smile. “Cream.”

“Coming up.” I take a carton of cream from the mini-fridge behind me and set it next to the mug. Normally, I would have doctored the coffee before giving it to a customer, but there’s nothing normal about tonight. “I’m Dylan, by the way.”

“Matthew,” he says without meeting my gaze. He concentrates on pouring a generous splash of cream, then carefully sinks into the chair at a table near the door, wrapping both hands around the mug to warm them.

He must be freezing in those clothes. I grab a couple of clean dish towels from a drawer and bring them to him, setting them on the table. “Here. I know they’re not ideal, but they’re better than nothing.”

“Thanks.” He casts a surreptitious glance at the door before patting his face with one of the towels.

“I can lock it if you want.” Honestly, I would have done it before, but I didn’t want to spook him.

Color floods his cheeks, and he looks down at his coffee. “It’s fine.”

I don’t believe him. Whatever he’s running from, whatever has him literally looking over his shoulder, is anything but fine.

“I should have probably taken this to go,” he says almost to himself, frowning in consternation.

“Are you driving?” I ask. “I didn’t see a car.”

“I parked in the public lot a few blocks away.”