Chapter 23
WOLFE
Trace had reminded me that Jake’s actions reflected on Jake, not on me, and I knew he was right. I also knew Trace believed his own words completely. That he didn’t blame me for what happened this afternoon.
But now that the initial terror had faded and I was safe in Trace’s arms, I couldn’t stop thinking about the other danger Jake presented… and it was hard not to want to kick myself.
Jake knew I was Fletcher Coe.
From what Clay had said, Jake would be spending the night in a cell, so it was unlikely he’d have a chance to post the news on social media right away.
But I had no way of knowing who else he might have told.
What fail-safes he might have in place. How long it would be until the tidy dam separating the two parts of my life imploded.
All because I’d gotten careless.
God, I was so fucking tired. And my ankle throbbed. My quads shook from the effort of getting down the mountain on one leg while holding the other up away from the slippery ground. Standing under the hot spray felt amazing, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand here.
“Hey,” Trace said softly, his arms tightening around me to take more of my weight. “Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe, I promise.”
I shook my head. Trace had no idea.
“I need to get out of this shower,” I said. “I’m sick to death of being wet. I want to pull on every article of clothing I own, then crawl under my duvet in the van.”
“I endorse this,” Trace said with a nod. “As long as I’m allowed to come.”
I huffed out a laugh and squeezed him once. For a man who’d made my life so fucking hard, he sure made it easy, too.
But there were some things he couldn’t fix, even if I’d let him. Like putting a genie back in its bottle.
I just kept thinking there had to be a way around this. A way to neutralize the information Jake had or to convince him not to reveal it in the first place.
Trace shut off the water and grabbed towels to dry us off. Then he helped me into a soft pair of his sweatpants and one of his big T-shirts and got me seated on the built-in wooden bench next to the shower stall so he could dress himself.
“Jake had my journal,” I said. “That’s what we argued about. He asked me to introduce him to Papa, I said no, and he… he threatened to reveal what he’d seen in the journal.”
Trace froze with one foot in the pant leg of his joggers, and his eyes widened. “He admitted he took it?”
“First, he blamed Shay, but then he said he was the one who took it,” I said. “I don’t think Shay knows.”
“Where’s the journal now?”
I tilted my head toward the bathroom door. “Your car. It’s in my pack—”
Trace froze again, this time with one arm in his sleeve. “The pack you let me carry down the mountain?”
“I only have the one pack, so… yeah. Obviously.” I frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He waved a hand and finished pulling on his Made Marian tee. “I’m great. Just means a lot that you trusted me with that. Keep going.”
I shrugged. “Anyway. I have it back now, but he could have taken pictures of the pages.”
“Fuck. I’m sorry, baby.”
I nodded glumly. Of course Trace didn’t get how big a deal this was—
He lifted my chin. “That information is yours to share, Wolfe. With whoever you trust to have it. In whatever way makes you comfortable. It’s not okay that he saw any of it in the first place. It’s sure as fuck not okay that he’s trying to blackmail you with it.”
I stared at Trace with wide eyes. He did get it. Fuck, he totally got it. He didn’t know the details, but he understood anyway.
I had a truth I wanted to tell Trace right then.
Not about being Fletcher Coe—though yeah, that too. Eventually. After I figured out how I wanted to handle this situation, so Trace would know I’d told him because I wanted him to know, not because I needed his help.
No, what I wanted to tell Trace was even bigger and more precious. A secret I’d kept nestled safely in my heart for more than a decade. One I’d never been able to speak, but that had colored every damn lyric I’d ever written.
I love you was on the tip of my tongue…
“Baby?”
I blinked at Trace, who had squatted on the bathroom floor beside my bench. “Yeah?”
He smiled, amused and patient. “I asked if you were hungry.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. Now that he mentioned it, I realized I was ravenous, and the rest would keep. “Yeah, let’s eat.”
We quickly packed back up and drove the short distance from the bathroom building to my van. When I stepped inside, I used the countertop to hobble directly to the cabinet over my kitchen counter. “I have pasta—”
Trace moved behind me until the warm length of him was pressed against my back, and his hands landed on my hips. “Lie down. Let me do the cooking while you elevate your ankle, yeah? You have an ice pack or something?”
Though I’d been working through it successfully all day, some remnant of my earlier fear of Trace treating me like a child reared its head. I set my jaw mulishly and turned to face him. “I’m perfectly capable of cooking—”
“I know. Do you want to cook right now?”
I blinked. “I mean… not really. But it needs to be done, so—”
Trace nodded like that was all he needed to hear. He backed me three paces to the bed. “You fucking crawled down a mountain today, Wolfe. You don’t need to prove anything to me.” He pushed gently, and my ass bounced on the mattress. “You never did. Got it?”
I took a deep breath. “Got it,” I said softly.
He pushed my damp hair back from my forehead. “I like taking care of you. And if you’re around next time I come in from a few weeks’ camping in the backcountry, believe me, I’ll let you return the favor.”
That sounded fucking amazing. Taking care of Trace. Being equal partners with Trace. Being with Trace fucking period.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m sensitive about—”
Trace’s fingertips brushed down my cheek. “I get it. I hurt you. You wanna move past it, but it’s gonna take time to trust me and to heal. Speaking of which…” He knelt by the small fridge and handed me the flexible ice pack I’d gotten earlier in the trip.
I rolled my eyes and settled back on the bed with the ice pack on my ankle.
The truth was, it was really fucking nice letting Trace take care of me. Watching him move around my tiny kitchen space, wearing his Made Marian tee, was a reminder that he wasn’t just the sexy-as-fuck man I adored. He was family. Dependable and trustworthy. Comforting and safe.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t let myself bask in the feelings. I had too much other shit to think about. Like that impending life explosion.
I reached over and grabbed my journal out of the muddy pack on the floor. It was time to assess just how much damage Jake could cause by reviewing what was in it.
Trace’s voice surprised me, but his words shocked me even more. “Love pressed flat like petals between the pages of a journal no one reads…”
My heart stopped as the journal fell from my hands into my lap. I stared at Trace, who was casually pouring a jar of pasta sauce into a small pan to heat.
He caught the movement and looked up with a smile. “Your dad put me onto this songwriter a while back, Fletcher Coe. That’s a line from one of his songs about writing in a journal. Reminded me of you just now.”
“Oh. ’Kay?” There was a pause between the syllables as I choked on my saliva, and I worried my eyes were wide with panic. If you’d asked me two weeks ago, the idea of Trace quoting my lyrics at me was a peak life goal. But right now…
Fuck, what was I supposed to do? It didn’t feel right to tell him yet, and I was way too frazzled for the conversation that would need to happen when I did. But I couldn’t outright lie.
I was pretty sure I’d imagined Trace’s sigh as he turned back to the stove. Because a second later, he smiled easily and gave the journal in my lap a nod.
“Glad to have it back?”
“Of course.” I held it to my chest. “This leather cover is my most prized possession. I’d want it back even if he’d kept the notebook inside it.”
He flashed me a look of amused confusion. “I thought your Martin guitar was your most prized possession?”
I shook my head, relieved to notice it throbbed a little less now.
“There were several thousand D-28s made in 1969 alone. There’s only one of these in existence.
It’s irreplaceable.” I held the soft leather on my lap and ran a fingertip across the engraved initials.
“This cover’s held more of my secrets than any human on Earth. ”
Trace’s eyes met mine, dark in the dim lighting of the van this late at night. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. I even mention you. Not by name, but by the letter T. Which would be obvious to Jake now.” I winced, thinking of my last journal entry, where I’d confessed I’d been thinking of Trace while Jake kissed me. “I think a lot of things about us are pretty obvious to him now.”
Trace shrugged. “I don’t mind him knowing how you feel about me, whether it’s good or bad. And I don’t care if he knows we’re together either. The truth’s more powerful than any secret.”
“You might feel differently if he makes it public,” I pointed out. “Since my fathers still don’t know.”
The timer went off for the pasta, and Trace turned to drain it.
“Good point,” he muttered.
I don’t know what I expected, but his easy agreement made my stomach twist. We still hadn’t talked about how or when—or if—we’d tell my family about our relationship. We needed more time.
If Jake went public, that wouldn’t be an option.
I flipped through the journal to assess the possible damage to my reputation if parts of it were exposed, and the results were grim. My fantasies. Thoughts on my road trip. Page after page of Fletcher’s distinctive lyrics I happened to know had already been shared on Fletcher’s own Instagram.
Fuck. If this went public, the results would be cataclysmic for so many people.
Everyone in my family would learn that I’d kept this huge secret from them. Papa would figure out why. And Trace… fuck. Our relationship was so new. Would it survive the kind of pressure that came from being outed against our will?
Did I have a choice?