Page 43 of Secret Heart
“Stay with us?” she asks.
He frowns, looking from her to me and then down at the cowboy hat held loosely in one hand at his side. “This morning? Or…”
He trails off.
“Or…” she says, not as a question, though she holds the syllable out the same way he had. “We have a bedroom you could use to nest. Or the guest house. Or the living room, if that’s what you want. Wherever you want to build it.”
She holds her hand out to him, palm up, in silent invitation.
His eyes hold that same unfathomable, longing look he had on Friday. I don’t dare move, trying to let whatever pheromonedriven silent conversation is happening play out without interference.
“I still have all of… this to transition back into.” He holds up his hat. “My contract has another two years and then probably extra after that. I can’t guarantee I won’t cause you to be doxxed.”
I’m the one who says something this time. “We know. We’ll figure it out.”
His gaze flashes from her to me and then back. His entire body trembles as he sets his palm in hers. She wastes no time pulling him closer. He carefully sits on the bench between the two rocking chairs, his hat still in his left hand and hanging off the edge. She raises his hand and presses it to her lips. His clove scent intensifies, and she tenses.
Triston swallows again but doesn’t try to run away. After a long minute, Emily relaxes and lets go of his hand. He drops it to her leg, just beside mine. I let my pinky trace the edge of his. He looses a disbelieving half-laugh.
It’s that moment that a cry cuts through the monitor.
Emily slides out of my lap, letting me stand.
“You want to get her with me?” I ask Triston.
He blushes and then stands up, too, leaving his hat on the bench.
“I’d love to.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
TRISTON
The coffee shop is small but bustling with tourist traffic when I slip inside the doors and look across the various seats and tables. I have my cowboy hat pulled lower than typical, hoping it keeps me a bit more discreet, and I’ve pulled a brown and red plaid flannel overtop a plain shirt, buttoned completely in an attempt to cover the fading hickeys left by Beau and Emily Saturday night. In Oakland, the look combined with my black boots would have garnered more attention than I’m wanting. Luckily, in Jackson—especially in late spring—it’s not a combination that stands out all that much.
A few people glance up as the bells ring above the door when it closes behind me, but no one does any kind of double take. I tuck my hands in my front pockets, looping my thumbs through the belt loops, and look over the room again, slower this time. Lance looks up just as I settle my gaze on him. He smiles and lifts his chin, standing from the low-backed chair with ease. He grabs the coffee in front of him and crosses the room. He pulls me in for a quick hug then hands me the paper cup.
“Perfect timing as always,” he says in greeting. “We should have just enough time to run through a couple question potentials before the interviewer is ready.”
I take the coffee and use it as a way to keep from responding right away. The liquid burns my throat, and it’s not the right balance of creamer to coffee, but I don’t let it bother me. I give a bland smile, and he frowns.
“Are they recording it for social media?” I ask to delay the inevitable questions coming about Creek Falls.
He nods. “Makeup time is already built in if you’re wanting some.”
I manage to avoid touching the fading bruises on my neck. The worst ones the collar covers, and my hair is long enough now to make the others harder to notice. I suppose if people want to make a big deal about them, it’ll just drive the engagement up on the posts. It’s not like I’ll see the comments.
That thought has me remembering I never saw Emily’s messages, and my mood sours.
“Unless they’re overly concerned, I’ll pass,” I mutter, just like always. Lance nods, not at all surprised. “What’s after this one, then?”
“Up to you,” he says. “Figured we could run through what’s been brought up to me and fill out your summer before the interview. Especially since they’re probably going to ask you your plans after taking the respite.”
I take a longer pull from the coffee cup.
Lance lets the conversation drop, walking beside me as he leads us into the heart of Jackson and away from the main tourist thoroughfare. I ease the hat a bit higher and stretch my neck. It’s the wrong move. A small group of women step out of a small shop and their eyes widen. The girl in the middle—at least a couple years younger than me, though they all might still be in college—gasps.
“Oh my gosh!” she says. “Are you Triston Harding?”
