Chapter 5
THE FAMILY GRAVEYARD
He’s the kind of person you might see on the cover of a magazine, with flawless bone structure and eyes so blue they match his oxford shirt.
His dark hair is thick and neatly styled, with one rebellious lock falling over his quirked eyebrow.
But even that looks intentional, as though his imperfections have been meticulously arranged.
The corner of his mouth curls into a crooked grin as he stands there at the edge of the clearing, leaning against a tree like an exquisite painting, every stroke designed to draw the eye exactly where he wants it to go.
I’m so caught off guard by his presence, it takes me a minute to register how intensely he’s staring.
At some point, his languid demeanor has shifted, only I’m not sure when.
I’m not even sure how. He hasn’t moved. He’s still leaning against a tree, his attention traveling upward—from my second-hand running shoes to my wind-tousled hair—with such fervor, my cheeks turn warm.
I tuck a loose strand behind my ear, trying to get my voice unstuck, when he steals my line.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Who are you?” I retort. This is a private estate. A gated estate. People aren’t allowed to just come inside.
He smirks impishly. “My name’s Rafe.”
“Well, Rafe, this is private property.”
“Vandenberg,” he finishes.
The surname hits me between the eyes.
Vandenberg.
I blink several times. “But I—I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“That would be my cousin, Jude. And his mother. Or rather, his stepmother.” He leans forward slightly, and says in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I don’t think he’s very fond of her.”
A cousin.
My sleuthing never mentioned a cousin.
“Your turn now,” he says, his arms still crossed.
“I’m Selah.” I lift my chin, annoyed by the flood of heat in my cheeks and the pounding of my heart. “Selah Whitlock. My father is the new groundskeeper. We just moved into the guest house.”
“Ah,” he says. “Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?”
He cocks his head and continues to stare in a way that makes breathing difficult. When it becomes obvious he’s not going to answer, I fold my arms, too, and just as I’m searching for a quippy reply, I remember the shadowed figure I saw in the window yesterday. “When did you get here?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I figure Yale can wait. But the 200th celebration of a town that owes its existence to my ancestors? That only comes, well, every two hundred years.”
“You’re here for the festivities?”
“Amongst other things.” He lets the cryptic words hang in the air with a slightly amused, slightly condescending smile. He uncrosses his arms and prowls toward me like a predator on the hunt. With my heart galloping the way it is, I feel every inch the prey.
The closer he comes, the more gorgeous he gets. High cheekbones. Well-defined jaw. A faint cleft in his chin. When he strolls past, he smells as expensive as he looks.
I turn my head to track his movements—my muscles tense, my breath shallow.
He stops at a tombstone and sets his hand on top of it.
Amos Vandenberg.
The star of the reenactment.
The town’s very own hero.
“He was an amazing man, Uncle Amos.” The words are respectful. Deferential, even. But there’s a wicked gleam in his eye, and that whisper of a grin, like he’s privy to some kind of secret that is both awful and delightful. He resumes his prowl, winding his way in and out of the tombstones.
I fix my attention on his shoes.
Patent leather.
Much too expensive to be wearing on a walk through the woods.
“Did you follow me here?” I ask.
I expect him to deny it. Scoff at the accusation.
Instead, his barely-there grin widens into a wolfish smile.
The gap between us shrinks until he’s standing so close, I’m leaning back on my heels, tilting my head to look him in the eye.
His are even bluer up close, not a trace of any other color in them. Rimmed with eyelashes as dark as night.
His attention dips to my lips. “Would you like it if I had?”
My body is trapped. Stuck like my breath. My heart a caged bird as he brings the tip of his pointer finger beneath my chin and dips his mouth toward mine. Like he intends to kiss me.
I lurch backward. “What are you doing?”
His eyes remain fixed on the spot where my lips once were. He stays like that for a frozen second. Then he blinks lazily and cocks his head, as though perplexed by my rejection. Sure, the guy is drop dead gorgeous. But that doesn’t give him liberty to go around kissing strangers.
“Seriously,” I say, voice rising. “What were you trying to do?”
“Have a little fun?”
I take another step back.
The audacity.
The entitlement.
The sheer arrogance.
It’s all so … outrageous.
“I can assure you, I’m not that kind of girl.”
My words make his expression go expressionless. Completely deadpan, like an invisible switch has been flipped. He studies me for a drawn out moment. “You look like someone.”
“Excuse me?”
“You look like someone,” he repeats.
When he makes no attempt to elaborate, I lift my eyebrows in clear agitation. “Who?”
“A girl I … sort of know.”
“Well, I’m not her.”
“Obviously.”
“Don’t follow me again.”
“You’re a guest on my property,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets.
A retort lashes across my tongue. I’m not a guest. I live here, too.
But even if I were a guest, that doesn’t give him the freedom to follow me or kiss me.
I swallow the words. Rafe Vandenberg could very well have a say in my father’s job.
As much as I might want to bring him down a peg or two, I want to stay here more.
I clench my teeth to keep the retort inside.
He looks amused, and maybe a little disappointed. Like he would have enjoyed a verbal spar.
My phone dings.
Grateful for the interruption, for an excuse to look away, I slip my phone from my pocket to check the screen. The time comes as a shock.
It’s five past noon.
I was supposed to be in the basement of Evermore Books, recording an episode for the podcast with Twig five minutes ago.