Chapter Twenty –Twisted

Chapter Twenty

Willow

TWISTED

Performed by Carrie Underwood

I understood so much more about Lincoln from that handful of sentences he'd offered up. He'd said them as if they were simple facts, but I knew, both from instinct and from how he'd been acting ever since we'd met in the cemetery, that he carried remorse for all those tragedies. It hung on him like a badge he couldn't throw away. He felt responsible for those women. For all of them.

Which was why he hadn't been able to walk away from me.

Why he'd followed me down the street at two thirty in the morning.

Why he'd shown back up and demanded I not go anywhere alone.

I understood guilt. What if I hadn't let my dad walk alone that night? What if I hadn't seen their faces? What if Mom hadn't had to tear apart her life in order to give me one?

While neither of us could take responsibility for the tragedies that had woven their way into our past, I could understand his determination to not allow something else to happen on his watch. Just like I was determined to not let Mom lose everything all over again if I could help it.

When I'd spoken to Deputy Marshal James, she'd assured me Aaron was tucked away in Chicago, and there was no chatter about him searching for me. He was busy with the RICO case set to go to trial this summer.

Mom was safe, miles away with her students. The ugly note on the door had to have been Poco, and Lincoln had someone running that down. Everything was going to be okay. We weren't sliding back into the nightmare of those first years. I was grateful I had not only the Marshals but Lincoln to keep me safe.

Except, just being photographed with him could slice through our protective wool hiding us from the Viceroys. Coming here, to the grocery store, in the middle of the day wasn't smart.

I tore my gaze from his, watching the automatic doors swooshing back and forth as dozens of people walked in and out. "Aren't you afraid of being recognized?"

Maybe he heard the tremor in my voice, because he tried to ease it by grinning and saying, "I have a disguise." I raised my brows, and he winked, leaning into the back seat and coming back with a baseball cap. After putting it on with a snap, he opened the center console, grabbed a pair of sunglasses, and slid them on with a flourish of hands. "Voilá, I'm no longer Lincoln Matherton."

I couldn't help the giggle that escaped, because there was no way it was a true disguise. Sure, the bright-blue eyes the world adored were hidden as well as his lush, dark waves, but every ounce of his nose, jaw, and broad shoulders still screamed the truth of him.

"You can't be serious. The girl at the café recognized you with that hat."

"But I didn't have my sunglasses. That's the ultimate shield."

I shook my head, but all my doubts disintegrated with the force of his wide smile that stopped my lungs from filling completely.

He got out of the car, and I opened my door and stepped out just as he came around and shut it behind me.

"Watch and learn, little Padawan. The Force is with me dressed and acting like this."

He hunched his shoulders, grabbed my hand, and headed for the row of carts with a shuffle that was anything but confident. It was the first time I'd seen him without the rigidly straight back and assured air I'd come to equate with him.

In some ways, he was right. He didn't look like Lincoln Matherton, world-famous artist and president's son. He looked…normal. Everyday. But also stunningly gorgeous enough people would look. So I still expected someone to recognize him, to shift their eyes and phones toward us, but not a single person glanced in our direction, even when he kept the sunglasses on inside the store.

While I continued to look around nervously, Lincoln led us to the produce section where he started tossing items in the cart that felt utterly random. This was a ridiculous risk. Stupid in just the way the Marshals had taught us not to be. But I hadn't wanted to go home when he'd asked me to come. I'd wanted to stay in the one place where I felt safest—with him.

My palms turned sweaty, and I shot a nervous look in the direction of a man staring at the bagged salad display.

Lincoln put a bunch of bananas in the cart and then pulled me closer. "You're going to ruin everything and get us spotted if you keep looking around like that."

"Me?" I asked. "You're the one who was on the cover of The Reporter ."

He shifted me so I was caught between the handle of the cart and him. My hips pressed against his, and a fire flew through my veins that felt like a heavy pull of alcohol.

"You're supposed to be part of the disguise, not shaking it. No one expects to see me here in Cherry Bay with a blonde they can't name."

One glance over his shoulder proved we had caught the eye of an elderly woman. Her pursed lips and narrowed eyes screamed her disapproval of this display of…whatever it was.

"I should be offended that you consider me no one, but I'm not," I said. "I need that anonymity. It's kept me safe."

His face softened, and he leaned in and gave me a soft, quick kiss. "You're not no one, Sweetness. You're the bravest, strongest woman I've met."

My heart and soul flipped at those words said with a surety that allowed for no argument. I pushed against his chest. "You're the one making a scene. That woman is about to call security." I flicked my eyes in the older woman's direction, only to have her glance away with disgust.

He looked over his shoulder, caught the woman's eyes, and gave a little wave.

The woman turned beet red, turned on her heel, and rounded the next corner.

I couldn't help the giggle that escaped me once more. "Nice way to not call attention to yourself."

I shoved against his chest once more, and this time, he released me. As he pushed the cart down the aisle with those uncharacteristically slumped shoulders, I walked by his side, scanning the fruits and vegetables. When my eyes landed on baskets of perfectly ripe strawberries, I wished I'd at least brought some money with me. I picked the berries up, sniffed them, touched their firm skin, and then set them down with a sigh, moving past them as I followed Lincoln.

"You make it really hard not to touch you," he said.

"I'm not doing anything," I huffed out.

"You practically made love to the strawberries."

I beamed up at him. "They're perfect. It's hard to find perfect strawberries this early in the season, especially at a regular market."

"And yet you left them behind."

"I don't have my purse."

He stopped, stared at me over the top of the sunglasses for a moment, and then turned the cart around, going back to pick up the basket I'd held, along with three more.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Willow, the one thing I have in spades is money. Get whatever you want."

"We're supposed to be here shopping for you," I said.

"We're here together. If you see something you need or want—or hell, just decide to try—I expect you to put it in the cart." It was a grouchy command that somehow wound its way through my heart more than a soft request would have.

"I'm not mooching off you, regardless of how much money you have to throw around."

Pleasure filled his face, lifting his lips once more. "You realize that only makes me like you more, right? How about we make a trade?"

And the way he looked down my body set my nerve endings on fire, but I frowned at him. "I don't trade like that."

He laughed gently. "Neither do I. You can make me something fabulous for dessert while I make dinner."

"We haven't even had lunch."

"I'll make lunch and dinner, and you can make dessert."

"Do you like to cook?" I asked. We'd moved away from the berries, but I grabbed a variety of citrus as we went by.

"No. I can't stand it. I have exactly two dishes I can make well. You'll see both of them today."

More laughter erupted from me, and it drew another pair of eyes as we went down the next aisle. "Not to brag or anything, but I did graduate from culinary school. How about I make you dinner and dessert and leave you to lunch?"

"I happily accept," he said.

? ? ?

Even though I'd offered, Lincoln refused to let me help make lunch, so instead, I started on the dessert I was making with the strawberries. Finding things in his kitchen was like a scavenger hunt, and some of the items were in all the wrong places for their use, but it wasn't my kitchen to reorganize. When I didn't find a zester and had to ask, he lifted a brow.

"I'm pretty sure I don't own one of those."

I huffed, thinking of the three in different sizes I owned at the cottage.

But I was still reluctant to go back, not only because it had been violated with an ugly note but because I'd be alone there and I'd have to leave Lincoln to do so. Right now, the trip to the store with him had shoved aside all my fears and sadness and replaced them with a lightheartedness I wanted to hold on to as long as possible.

As if reading my thoughts and also wanting to stay away from anything that could send us back to the darkness, Lincoln asked, "Where'd your mom go this weekend?"

"State Science Decathlon. She and her students have worked hard to get this far, so I didn't want her to miss it. Thank you for reassuring her I'd be okay."

I was still uncomfortable I hadn't told her the truth about who Lincoln really was. But she'd agreed with me the note was much more likely to be from Poco than the Viceroys, and I had to believe Poco wouldn't do anything if Lincoln was with me. He was too much of a coward. Up until now, he'd only approached me when he thought I was alone and defenseless.

Regardless of what Lincoln had told Mom about not letting me out of his sight, I'd have to go home at some point. But for now, I'd enjoy these moments with him. I'd savor the company, and the connection, and the thrill of having him at my side while we were tucked away where no one could see us.

Lincoln plated two basic grilled cheese sandwiches and brought them to the beautiful oak table in his kitchen with a bag of potato chips. He turned back to the fridge, "Water? Tea? Lemonade?"

"Water. Store-bought lemonade is way too acidic."

"Because the culinary chef makes her own?" he asked, lips twitching.

I shrugged. I could make my own, but drinks weren't my expertise.

Instead of sitting across from me, he had us sitting side by side, and every time I moved my right arm, it brushed against him, sending secret little thrills through me. I was enjoying this way too much. Liking it way too much. It already hurt just thinking about losing him, but I'd allow myself to play with the fire just a bit longer. I'd revel in the bliss of every second at his side until the crash of reality came.

"So, if I'd let you make me dinner, would it have been mac and cheese?" I asked, biting my lip to keep from smiling.

He elbowed my arm playfully. "Nothing wrong with mac and cheese. The White House chef makes one that melts in your mouth. But no. I'd planned on spaghetti."

"With that garlic-laden jarred sauce you picked up that is nothing like authentic marinara?"

He snickered before saying, "This is very unexpected."

"What?" I wiped my face with a napkin, wondering if I had something on it.

"You're a food snob. I would never have expected you to be snobbish about anything, and yet, there it is."

His smile was so contagious I couldn't help but return it. "Garlic is overrated. There's a time and place for it, but the way most American's slather it around, all it does is hide the real flavors."

"Did you earn that snobbery degree in culinary school?"

I wasn't the least bit offended because there was no real jab in his words. It was all delightful tease. "My dad was a pretty decent chef for having no formal experience. He liked playing with food, and I learned a lot from him before…" I shrugged. "When we moved, Mom's time was absorbed with working and studying for her teaching credential, and the Marshals had decided I should finish high school online, which was fine by me, so I was pretty much in the cottage twenty-four seven. I started watching all these food shows, especially the competitions, and then I began experimenting with different recipes, and it helped get me through. When I started at Bonnin, I got a job with Hector and learned more."

"You went to Bonnin?" he asked.

"I dropped out in the spring semester of my junior year."

"How'd your mom take it?"

I played with a potato chip, crumbling it. "Honestly, Mom understood. That semester was Danny and Roci's trial, and I had to go back and testify. I wasn't sleeping well and couldn't concentrate on my classes. We were both terrified it was the fatal familial insomnia rather than just nerves and terror."

Lincoln pushed his plate away and turned in his seat so his knees banged into my thigh. Heat and desire burst through me in a sudden, fiery crescendo.

"I can't imagine. That must have been terrifying to face them in court. I didn't have the pleasure of seeing the man who shot Lyrica declared guilty, because he copped a plea."

"What about the truck driver who killed Sienna?"

"He died in the wreck too. Hard to take your anger out on a dead guy."

My heart bled for him. For me. For the things we couldn't change. "On the plane ride back from Chicago, I had this moment of clarity about living as much as I could regardless of being in witness protection and having the unknown of the FFI hanging on me. I took out the pamphlet Hector had given me for the culinary institute and talked it over with Mom. She agreed that life was too short to piddle around with things that didn't make me feel alive. If college wasn't for me, she was okay with that."

"She's a good mom," he said softly.

"The very, very best. I just want her to be happy, you know? To get back some of the joy I always saw in her eyes when she was with my dad. She just accepted a date with Hector today. They're adorable together…" That damn lump came back, and I refused to let it grow, so I changed the subject back to him. "Did your parents support you and your art? Is that what you studied in college?"

He laughed, leaned in, and kissed me on the tip of my nose in a way that made my breath disappear. "It's so cute that you don't actually know anything about me."

I huffed. "Sorry I didn't major in Lincoln Matherton at school."

His lips quirked upward more. "I got a master's in Art History and played around with getting my doctorate, but opening the gallery took precedence." The smile he'd had disappeared. "It was important, not just to me but to Sienna and her family."

His eyes traveled across the room and stayed there, as if watching something—someone—in the same way he had earlier. A chill went up my back that I couldn't explain. But the simple fact his light had faded made me tease instead of offering more condolences.

"Overachiever." I pushed at his arm just like he had mine. He chuckled.

I wanted to kiss him. I wanted that deep laugh to turn into the passionate groan he'd let out while we'd devoured each other. Instead, I got up from the table, taking our plates with me to the sink.

He sat, watching me while I cleaned up, before I turned back to the flour I'd spread on the counter and the covered pastry dough waiting for me. He rose and came to stand across the island, watching me as I worked.

When I looked up, his expression was soft and gentle, swimming with an emotion I couldn't possibly name.

"What?" I asked.

"You look really good here. In my house. In my kitchen." The words were deep and guttural. The intensity of his eyes was almost too much. I looked down at the dough I was kneading way too hard. The pastry would be tough. "It's like I designed it for you. The sunshiny mood fits you way better than it ever fit me."

Butterflies danced in my chest, and it took me a moment to respond. "If we put together all the time we've spent together, it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. I don't think you really know what fits me. Just like I don't know what fits you."

"You truly are a little liar," he said softly, and it drew my eyes back to his. The lit flame that danced between us sparked once more, settling down low in my stomach.

"I get it, though. This…" He waved a hand between us. "It hit fast and furious in the middle of an intense situation. It's hard to know what's real." He moved around the island, stopping just short of coming into my space. Even still, the connection binding me to him dragged itself through my veins. "But that, Sweetness…that feeling you just got that changed the pale-gray clouds in your eyes into thunderstorms…that's real. That's rare. That's us. We don't need to know much else."

I couldn't respond if I wanted to. As absurd as the declaration was, it also rang with the truth. Whatever this was between us was real and rare. It should make me happy. It fit nicely into the last line item in my journal. I wanted that beauty and joy and love more than he could imagine.

But it seemed impossible to think there was a way to surmount the hurdle of his fame and my need for anonymity.

He hadn't been scared off by my potential FFI and what it could do to me, and that made my soul dance a little jig. I'd wanted someone who wouldn't care. Who could take the leap into the unknown even if it meant a fall. What had he said? Fate had already brought us together. He'd accepted it.

I was the one holding back. Afraid to fall.

Afraid what it could mean for not just me but my mom.

"I know what I want, Willow," he insisted. He wanted everything. All of me. "But I'm also not enough of an ass to push it, because I see your hesitation. It's part of why I stopped earlier instead of stripping you bare, laying you on the floor, and feasting on you."

My core clenched at his words.

I let out an exasperated breath. "How would that even work, Lincoln? Your life plays out across the pages of magazines and TV screens."

"I'm not sure yet," he said honestly. "So we'll wait until we figure it out."

The surety of his words, the sweet temptation of them, had me hearing popular fairy-tale songs in my head. If he'd reached out and touched me right then, I would have crumbled, just as I'd known I would when I'd seen him walking toward me in the gallery this morning. I'd tried to grasp the ledge and hold myself back, but my fingers were slipping. Pretty soon, I wouldn't care about the risk to me or Mom, and that truly terrified me more than the note on the door had.

Instead of closing the distance between us, Lincoln stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits.

"I can be patient. But not for too long. Because your mom is right. Life is too damn short to turn away from something that makes you feel alive." He walked away, calling back over his shoulder, "I have some work to do in the study. Let me know if you need anything."

I stared after him for at least a minute. Maybe two. Trying to right the tumult and chaos that twirled inside me. Trying to steady my pulse. Trying to call back my heart that seemed to have followed him out of the room.

When I looked down at the pastry, I sighed. I'd have to start over or make something different. Something new. I wanted to give Lincoln something more than a regular tart for dessert. I wanted light and airy, melt-in-your-mouth goodness. I tossed the ruined dough. It would have been a fine dessert, but fine wasn't always enough.

I wanted big and beautiful. I wanted more.