Chapter Ten: Play On

Chapter Ten

Willow

PLAY ON

Performed by Carrie Underwood

By the time I'd walked out the door the next morning, clutching my bakery box, I'd almost convinced myself that yesterday had been one big overreaction by both Lincoln and me. I was certain Poco would leave me alone and that Lincoln would come to his senses and not show up in the early hours just to walk me to work. And I'd also convinced myself that going our separate ways now was for the best. We could just wave at each other occasionally without anyone, namely me, having gotten too attached.

So, when Lincoln stepped out of the darkness, I let out a yelp and jumped, almost losing my hold on the precious pink box.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, steadying the box in my hands.

As I tried to slow the hammering of my heart, I stared up at him. In the mix of shadows and light from the streetlamps and mist, he looked just like the vampire we'd joked about the day before. Defined muscles layered over a lean frame gave the impression of a speedy stealth. Add in those eyes that mesmerized, and it was easy to imagine him ensnaring a victim.

"I wasn't sure you'd be here," I said breathlessly.

When his lips quirked upward, it only added to the rapid rhythm banging away at my veins, causing me to bobble the dessert again.

"I always keep my word," he said before swooping in to grab the box. "Let me carry that for you."

I rolled my eyes as he lifted it with ease. "What are we, in middle school? You don't need to carry my books to class."

As soon as the words were out, I tensed, biting my lip and wishing I could take them back. They sounded even worse than when I'd basically asked for his phone number yesterday because these words sounded like I thought we were dating. As if I thought this was something more than one neighbor going out of his way to help another.

When he let out a gloriously deep and sincere laugh, the warmth of it coasted over me like opening an oven door. The low pitch echoing in the dark was more addicting than the growl he'd sent my way multiple times.

"It's heavier than I expected. What's in here?" he asked.

Pride filtered through me. While I was pretty damn happy with this first attempt, I was also unsure what others would think of this weird combination of food and art. My mom and Hector were inclined to like it simply because I'd made it, but what would our customers think? What would someone like Lincoln, whose job was to showcase art, say about it?

"Dessert," I finally replied before setting off toward Main Street.

"I am all in favor of dessert for breakfast. What are we having?" His long legs easily kept pace with me as we made our way through the mist crawling up from the pavement. The storm from yesterday had disappeared, but it had left behind a bitter cold that whipped through me.

"It's a variety of miniature pastries."

"Why were you hiding it on your counter?" he asked, brows furrowing.

"It's something new and…" The words died in my throat as a quiet whistle broke through the air. Several notes of a cheery tune before it disappeared again. I spun around, looking into the darkness behind us. I'd just barely gotten my pulse under control, and now it spiked again.

I'd thought for sure Lincoln and I had overreacted. That Poco would be nowhere near me.

When I glanced up at Lincoln, anger flickered over his face in the glow of the streetlamps.

"Did you see anyone on your security system?" I gulped.

Lincoln stepped closer, our jackets brushing. "No. I went through the footage from yesterday, and there was nothing there, but I also didn't check the cameras this morning before I walked out. I won't make that mistake again."

I inhaled sharply and then forced my feet toward the safety of the café.

"You should really reconsider talking to the police," he said. This time there was none of the anger and irritation that had been there the day before when he'd asked about it. This was gentle. Soft. Almost pleading.

I hated that my excitement about my finished piece and, if I was honest, about seeing Lincoln again, had been ruined by Poco's ugliness. A shiver ran up my spine. How long would he continue to torment me?

But maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was back in the cemetery this morning, doing whatever it was he'd been doing the day before. Maybe this had nothing to do with me, and we'd just happened to hear him whistling. If I stayed away from him and the graveyard, maybe it would be the end of it.

As my mind whirled with all the possibilities, silence settled between us, and it was Lincoln who broke it. "I searched the internet for you yesterday."

When my heart skipped another beat, it had nothing to do with a whistled tune. This was all Lincoln and his being curious enough about me to look me up—not that he would have found anything, but he'd tried. I bit the inside of my cheek, unable to respond because of the flurry of hope and joy that brought me, even knowing I couldn't afford his curiosity.

"You have no social media accounts," he said, filling in my silence. "There's no mention of you anywhere. Your mom is easily found as a faculty member at Cherry Bay High, but there's no picture of her in the online directory."

The unasked questions hung in the air, and I saw the danger signs flashing. I could only hope he stopped before he asked something I couldn't respond to but found myself wanting to anyway.

My hope was washed away when he just continued to prod, asking, "Are you hiding from someone? On the run? You said your dad was dead and that you needed a new start, but are you hiding from him? Was he abusive to you or your mom?"

"My dad was a beautiful man!" I replied instantly and defensively. "Warm and funny. The very best kind of father."

"But you're hiding?"

I was grateful we were almost at the café, because that desire to answer him was only growing. Instead, I hurried ahead of him, leading the way into the alleyway behind The Tea Spot. The bulb above the back door was out, casting the entire area into a darkness that felt foreboding. I turned on my phone's flashlight app so I could see to unlock the door. The alarm squealed as I flipped on the lights, and Lincoln followed me inside while I punched in the code.

When I turned back, he was standing at the door, looking down at the ground outside with a frown. I joined him, noticing the broken glass. The back of my neck prickled with unease. The light being out was one thing, but this was different. This was purposeful. A knot formed in my throat.

As I went to step outside and get a closer look, Lincoln put out an arm to block me, pushing me back. The bakery box tilted in his hold, and my gut dropped at the thought of it falling, but he easily caught it.

"Shut the door," he demanded. With a nervous glance out into the dark, I did just that, locking the deadbolt as well.

"He didn't expect me to be with you again." Lincoln's voice held a barely veiled fury. "He thought he'd catch you alone in the dark."

His words kicked up the panic in my veins. My palms turned sweaty, and cold spiderlike fingers raced up and down my spine. Was this Poco? Or was this a sign of something far worse? Had the Viceroys come for me because of Roci's death? That thought had a fist tightening around my lungs, stealing my breath.

As quickly as it had come, I rejected the idea. It couldn't be them. It had to be Poco. It was the only thing that made sense when we'd done nothing to break the Marshals' protocols. The hold on my lungs eased ever so slightly. It was Poco. Of course it was, but I'd truly thought he'd let it go. Yes, he'd been pissed when I'd gotten away. I'd seen it clearly in his eyes. But I'd thought that once he'd calmed down, he'd realize it had been for the best. What would Paul have to say if Poco had taken it further, and I'd been forced to report it?

My mind flashed to the shovel he'd been carrying. What if I hadn't lived to report it? What if I'd ended up buried under dirt in a grave? My stomach revolted, and my head spun. I'd never once considered him ending my life. I'd thought it would all go away because I'd never taken Poco very seriously. The Cherry Bay criminal element seemed like boys playing cops and robbers rather than the true evil I'd witnessed up close and personal in Chicago.

Was it stupid to not have told anyone? The police? The Marshals? My mom?

God, I couldn't think clearly over the churning in my stomach and hammering of my heart.

So I did the only thing I could do, which was to grab the bakery box from Lincoln with hands that trembled and head farther into the kitchen. I set it down on one of the long steel counters and gripped the counter tightly to steady myself.

What would have happened if Poco had stepped out of the shadows this morning and confronted us? What would have happened to Lincoln when he tried to shield me as I knew with every fiber of my being he would have? Would he have been seriously hurt? Killed? Another wave of nausea hit me, and my eyes pricked. My dad had been murdered for his attempts to defend a stranger. It was only due to a moment of clarity and quick thinking on his part that I hadn't ended up dead too.

How would I ever recover if someone else died while I watched?

What if the person who died was Lincoln?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to get a hold on the fear running through me.

When I turned to face Lincoln, I was greeted with a gentle look that practically undid me. It promised things I couldn't afford. Friendship. Caring. More. The secret wishes I'd kept wound tight like a ball of cooking twine began to unravel. I longed to close the distance between us, put my cheek against his chest, and let his strong arms hold me.

But I couldn't take him up on the offer his eyes were making. I couldn't let the twine unroll. Not only because of what it might do to me but what it might do to him.

I cleared my throat, determination and resolve helping push back some of the fear and nausea. "I think it was a mistake to let you walk with me. I… This… It put you in danger."

His eyes widened as if shocked I was worried about him. "I've got years of martial arts training behind me. I'm not worried. I can take Poco if he comes at me."

The pure confidence of that statement was some reassurance, but what if it wasn't Poco? Or what if he had a gun or a knife and caught Lincoln off guard? I hated that I was letting the what-ifs spiral out of control. I didn't know what the right solution was. I was scared to walk alone. Afraid to call the Marshals and end our life here. Terrified Lincoln would be hurt.

And I absolutely despised that this was pushing me back to the state I'd been in that first year. When I hadn't even been able to walk out the door without having a panic attack.

Anger found its way past the fear. I might have to take Poco seriously, but I didn't have to let him and his stupid actions control me.

"Tell me why you don't want the cops involved," Lincoln demanded, crossing his arms over his broad chest, stance wide, and giving me a taste of why the world had named him the most handsome man under thirty. It wasn't just his chiseled good looks. It was that dark superhero vibe wavering around him—broody millionaire and president's son by day, avenging angel by night.

"Please don't push me on this," was all I could offer him. I might have to get the authorities involved, but it would likely be the Marshals rather than the Cherry Bay police.

But if I could just get a handle on it. If I could just make sure Poco stopped, it would be fine. Everything would go back to the way it had been.

I slipped out of my coat and took it and my bag into the office, giving myself some space and time to collect myself. I breathed in deeply, slowing my pulse, steadying my hands, and then replaced my skirt with an apron. By the time I'd returned to the kitchen, I'd pushed some of the worst emotions behind me, grounding myself again.

Lincoln was right where I'd left him, face still shadowed with concern.

"Just tell me one thing," he said softly. "Before the incident with Poco yesterday, were you afraid?"

"No. I hadn't been afraid in a couple of years." I was glad I could say that with some truth. After Danny and Roci had been sentenced to life in prison, I hadn't been scared. It had felt like our nightmare had finally come to an end. Deputy Marshal James had told us we still had to be smart, stay off social media, and keep our pictures off the internet because there was always the chance the Viceroys would seek revenge if they stumbled upon us. But Mom and I had both believed if we lived a quiet life, we'd be fine.

Lincoln's intense eyes took in every breath, judging the sincerity of my words. I had no doubt he could see the truth or the lies I told, which only added to my unease. I held my breath, wondering if he'd truly let it drop, and was surprised when he did.

He turned to the counter and the pink box. "Do I get to see what's in the box I carried?"

A little thrill at the thought of what I'd made pushed the fear and doubts back another notch. I hurried over before he could open the box, setting my hand on the lid and saying, "We can't eat it. Not yet. I need Hector to see it first."

His lips quirked upward. "That just means I have a reason to come back later."

I rolled my eyes both at his tease and at the way my insides squished at the thought of seeing him again. What would Lincoln say if he knew just being with him could put me in as much danger as Poco's threats? One random photo was all it took.

And it wasn't just the danger of discovery that put me at risk. Every moment I spent with him, every smile he gave me, every kind word, every time he stepped in to protect me, risked my ridiculous heart. It made me wish for things that could never come true.

I swallowed hard, looking down at the box. I wanted to show him what I'd created. Artist to artist. I rubbed a finger along the opening, a wave of nervousness like I used to feel when I'd finished a project at culinary school and handed it over to be judged settled over me. What would Lincoln think of my attempt at recreating the beautiful mosaic out of nothing but flour and sugar and fruit?

I'd never know unless I risked showing him, and I'd promised myself I would take all the risks I could within the boundaries set by witness protection. Within the safety of the program. So, after taking a huge inhale, I held my breath and lifted the lid.

It took a moment for him to really register what it was, but there was admiration in his voice as he said, "Willow. This is…wow!"

I exhaled softly, his awed look spinning through me with the same exhilaration of spun sugar.

He tilted his head, assessing the layers from another angle. After a moment, he asked, "What is it supposed to be?"

My bubble popped. The idea that he didn't know what it was had doubts creeping into my words. "It's a mosaic. On a wall at the cemetery."

He reached out as if to touch one of the tarts, and I snapped the lid shut. It was as much from my mortification at failing to capture the art as it was to keep him from touching it. His eyes flew back to mine, gaze skimming the heat filling my face.

"Wait. You're embarrassed? Why would you be embarrassed?"

"It was just a ridiculous idea. It was fun, but it's not like I could actually capture the genius of the original piece."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed again, eyes darkening. "Don't do that. Don't sell yourself short. If I hadn't known you'd made that out of food, if I'd just glanced at it, I would have thought it was a beautiful painting."

I snorted but was unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm serious. I know many chefs who consider the food they make art, but I never knew you could literally create a masterpiece with it. It's interesting and stunning. The smells of the fruit and the sugar combined with the visual colors and texture make it a different kind of genius, and believe me, I know genius when I see it. I've made my livelihood out of it."

My eyes leaped to his, and my breathing turned erratic as he locked me in a tantalizing stare.

"I was just playing around," I breathed out quietly. "It's far from perfect."

"Art isn't supposed to be perfect."

Those words spiraled through me, taking the attraction I felt for him and sending it to a whole new level. I felt raw from all the layers he'd pulled back in the mere hours I'd known him, revealing secret parts of me I'd kept hidden for so long.

After several long moments, I finally broke our gaze, and as I did so, my eyes landed on the clock. I was late. Again. I pushed away from the counter, reached for the scrunchie on my wrist, and tied my braid up in a knot before reaching for one of the plastic caps. Lincoln watched my every move, and my already furiously pounding heart twitched and twirled as if in anticipation of a favored treat.

"I have to start the scones," I said.

I hadn't heard him move, but he was suddenly there, grabbing my hand, tugging it into his, and placing it on his chest. Warmth crept through my fingertips, flashing down my wrist to my elbow before easing along my shoulder and lodging deep in my chest. The erratic rhythm inside me grew stronger. Louder. Faster.

He nudged my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His thumb gently stroked my jawline. Flames leaped inside me even as my natural preservation instincts screamed at the danger he posed.

My eyes fell to his mouth. Strongly shaped, gorgeous lips that I'd bet were strong and firm. Demanding like his words. Fierce. Lincoln would never be happy with someone simply accepting his touch. He'd want them to participate. To meet him equally. To actively engage in every single act and motion.

The handful of kisses I'd had over the years had been mere whispers of skin on skin. I'd witnessed them as if a third party, detached but curious. The men—no, the boys—I'd let that close had felt my lack of interest. They'd felt it and ran. For a brief moment with Chad, I'd thought it could be stoked into something more, but then he'd vanished at the first hurdle.

"Who hurt you, Willow?" Lincoln asked with so much tenderness it brought a sudden rush of tears to my eyes. I didn't cry. Not anymore. And yet, the gentleness of his words made it hard to fight them off as he continued, "Who left the wounds you so bravely hide?"

I blinked rapidly, desperate to hold back the onslaught. The speed at which he'd switched gears, going from talk of art and baked goods to things I couldn't discuss, unwound more of my strings. My world spun, and I barely caught my balance.

"Lincoln…" I shook my head, trying to remove his hand, but his fingers gripped my chin harder, refusing to let go.

"Don't. Don't tell me to leave or that I have no right to know. Just tell me the damn truth."

I closed my eyes so I wouldn't be forced to look at the intensity in his. I needed him to back down before he slid past my defenses and I spilled everything. I raised my hand to his wrist and tugged, trying to dislodge him once again, and when it didn't work, I looked up at him and answered with my own challenge. "Who left the scars on you? The ones that cling like a Grim Reaper to you?"

He dropped me like I'd burned him.

We stared at each other for another long moment, the air tense and heated with want and hope and fear. I shook my head, turned away, and washed my hands before breaking the silence. "We've known each other for twenty-four hours. You don't get to demand I tell you anything about my life, especially when you have no intention of sharing anything about yours. You may be used to getting your way. You may be used to thrusting around the power that comes with being the president's son, but that won't work with me. It's for the best if you just leave."

The words were true but also sharp and harsh. After grabbing a clean towel to dry my hands, I dared to look up, and I saw my words had hit home. It tore at me that I'd hurt him. The last thing I wanted to do was cause more pain to this beautifully protective man who carried his wounds like a penance he was paying. But I desperately needed him to back off before I crumbled and gave him everything. I swallowed the apology that automatically rose, knowing it was better to let the words stand as they were in order to grow the chasm between us rather than shrink it.

There was no other choice. It was just too risky to continue.