Chapter Four: Lessons Learned

Chapter Four

Willow

LESSONS LEARNED

Performed by Carrie Underwood

My heart was pounding so viciously I thought it might explode. Simply shatter into a thousand pieces like peppermint candies hit with a kitchen mallet.

I'd never expected to encounter another living soul in the middle of the cemetery tonight. Usually, I was only surrounded by the energy of those who had left this world and their memories that had embedded themselves into the stone and earth. I certainly hadn't expected to find Poco carrying a shovel or my stunning neighbor with his penetrating gaze. The stare that was right now burning me from the inside out rather than providing a soothing balm.

What would have happened if he hadn't shown up?

No . I knew better than to go down the road of what-ifs. They'd dragged me onto a dark path after losing Dad, and I wouldn't go there again. I would simply leave the heavy fears and questions about what had happened with Poco in the dark of the cemetery.

I shook my head, trying to wipe the thoughts away and push aside the tremors running through me. My neighbor took the motion as an objection to the hand he'd offered. So when I reached out to take it, a flash of surprise crossed his face followed by something that I thought just might be annoyance.

Sparks shot through me the moment our fingers touched. They were almost painful, like a palm placed near an open flame. If I let it any closer, it would leave a mark that might never fade, and yet it tempted me to touch it anyway. I'd felt the same scorching heat when he'd put his arm around me after jerking me free of Poco, but I'd thought it had been adrenaline. The fear and then pure relief of having escaped.

But here it was again, screaming a different kind of danger.

I inhaled sharply before bunching my long skirt in a fist and using his hand and his strength to help me scoot over the wall. When I landed on the other side, we were standing so close our noses almost touched, and the blaze ignited again, flickering down through my entire body. Our eyes locked. His were wary and almost angry. I wondered if mine showed my longing for all the things I'd previously denied myself—physical connection, lust, desire.

I pulled free of him, stepping back from the tantalizing blaze.

The light from his back door shone on his face, lighting up irises a brilliant shade of blue. A color so perfect it only existed in nature. One strand of dark hair had dropped over his brow, and even after he shoved it back, it fell forward again in almost the same place.

"You're shivering," he said. It came out raspy and annoyed, as if I'd offended him with a bodily function I couldn't control. "Come inside. I'll fix you a cup of tea."

For some strange reason, the pure grumpiness of his tone made my lips tilt upward. Even growling, his voice was dark and smooth, like melted ganache. A temptation I should step away from, just as I would the temptation to lick frosting from a spoon. The unexpected strength of the desire to do just that—to taste him like an intoxicating sample—had my feet rooting to the ground.

When I didn't respond to his offer of tea, his jaw clenched, and he spun around, heading for the door. As his heat dissipated, leaving the cold to latch on to me again, the lock on my limbs broke. I followed him on legs unsteady not only from what had happened in the graveyard but from him. Shaky because of the strength of the pure want curling through me. An unexpected and enticing experience that had me thinking of all the beautiful possibilities rather than fear of the last few minutes.

It was the music that hit me first as I stepped inside his house. Slow, sultry, and almost dangerous, it seemed to come from every corner. While it matched the mood of the situation we'd just escaped, it didn't quite fit the cheery yellow kitchen I instantly envied. It had top-of-the-line, professional appliances and an oversized, granite island so big I could lie on it and still have room. The glass-fronted, upper cabinets were lit, shining on brightly colored dishes as if they were flowers blooming amongst the vines painted along the roof line. The green of the leaves was echoed in lower cabinets, making it feel as if I'd walked into a sun-filled meadow at the height of spring.

"This is…" I shook my head. "Wow. It's incredible."

My neighbor frowned at me, and it crinkled the space between his brows in a way that made me want to brush the lines away as I did with Hector. I was so desperate to see a smile curve over his face that I had to stuff my hands into my pockets to make sure I didn't actually touch him.

He pushed a button on an electric kettle before grabbing two mugs from a cabinet above it.

"Mint? Chamomile?" he asked, waving toward a small apothecary chest on the counter that had a dozen drawers all labeled in gold paint.

I stepped closer, drawn to him as much as the antique. I examined the labels before turning my eyes to him in surprise. "That's a lot of tea."

"I'm up at night a lot. Tea relaxes me." His eyes narrowed after the grunted admission, as if I'd somehow tortured a secret out of him, and I bit my lip, holding back a giggle at his grouchiness.

"The Sweet Nothing is a Tea Spot special. I must recognize you from there," I said more to myself than him before pointing to the lemon verbena drawer.

He didn't respond, the frown between his brows just continuing to grow, and yet I felt certain the scowl didn't fit him any more than the shadows clinging to him. For some reason, in my mind, I kept seeing him laughing, happiness wrinkling his face rather than a glower.

"Do you go to the café a lot?" I asked, beaming at him again, hoping my ease would rub off. He stared at my lips for several seconds before that intense gaze of his flicked up to my eyes. The look there hit like a dart somewhere deep in my chest. An echo of my own emotions. Longing. Desire. The complete opposite of the disgust and fear I'd felt in the graveyard.

Instead of answering me, my neighbor asked, "What were you doing in the cemetery at this time of night?"

The way he said it sounded like an accusation, as if I'd asked for Poco's attention and his hands on me. The momentary enjoyment I'd managed to capture slipped away.

"Definitely not encouraging Poco!" I tossed back, barely repressing a shudder as I remembered Poco's strong grip on my arm and the leer in his eyes. My stomach churned nastily until I reminded myself that he was gone, I was safe, and the moment was behind me. I didn't need to dwell on it. No need to obsess. No need to retreat to the panic that had kept me locked in the cottage that first year.

Moving forward was always the right answer. Leaving the bad behind. Concentrating on the good. Mom. My baking. My pleasant life.

I needed to leave, get to the café, and start the scones.

Even as I stepped away, attempting to break the wave of strong emotions winding around us, I felt called to do the opposite. To get closer instead of farther away. It was as if those dark minutes in the cemetery had somehow bonded us.

Maybe it had simply been a counterreaction to the fear I'd felt as Poco had tried to drag me away, but when this man had rescued me, when his hand had drawn me close, I'd felt safe. More than that, I'd felt special. As if I was dear to him. As if my well-being was important.

Which was utterly ridiculous. It would be better to leave now with relief and attraction still sizzling in the air rather than stay and do something completely embarrassing. Better to leave before his wariness and irritation squashed this experience of dancing with heady desire and left only a bad taste that couldn't be rinsed away.

I whirled around, moving toward the door, only to have my feet stall and my heart leap as he called out, "Don't go." When I looked back at him, his eyes were hooded as he added, "You don't know if he's waiting. Have a cup of tea, and give it a few minutes."

The way his tone and his words kept warring with each other was confusing. One second, he was all kindness and sweet pleas, and the next, anger and annoyance filled the air. It was almost as if he thought I'd purposely arranged to thwart his quiet night, and for the first time since he'd rescued me, I felt irritated too. My shoulders went back, and my chin came up. I wasn't going to let him make me feel bad just because Poco was an ass. I hadn't done anything wrong. And I hadn't asked for him to step in, even though I was grateful he had.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your night," I snapped. "I'm sorry you felt the need to interfere, but I certainly didn't ask—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head. "I'm the one who's sorry." He ran a finger over his brow, let out a deep breath, and continued, "My attitude has nothing to do with you or what happened. You said no. He didn't listen. That's all on him."

Our eyes locked again, pulsing with not only attraction but the heaviness of the night's events.

When I didn't respond, he grunted out, "Stay."

My body reacted to that single-syllabled command. It caused all sorts of delicious tingles to zing through me, whispering about things I'd wanted and never had. My fingers found the necklace buried underneath my jacket. I tugged at it, closing my palm around the ring for several seconds.

When I still hesitated, he added, "Please."

That quiet plea ate away any lingering hesitation because it sounded as tortured as the admission he'd given me about his lack of sleep. It made me curious. Thrust me right back to those feelings of wanting to soothe and calm.

When I didn't make any further attempt to leave, he turned away to spoon loose-leaf tea into two strainers and drape them over the edges of the mugs in a practiced move. After, he stepped toward me, stuck out a hand, and with wary eyes said, "I'm Lincoln."

As soon as he said his name, it was like a kaleidoscope turned, and my mind filled with images of him. The laughing one that had pricked at me earlier along with a multitude of others that had been plastered all over the television screen, magazines, and online sites.

"Holy bejesus," I said softly, glancing around quickly as if expecting the Secret Service to come running into the room, bundle me up, and send me on my way.

His face shuttered, he dropped his hand, and I immediately felt sorry my response had caused him to shut down even more.

The kettle whistled softly, and he retreated to pour the water into the cups.

"I didn't recognize you at first. I…" I shook my head, trying to clear it. I was in a kitchen with the president's son! His kitchen. The son of the president of the United States not only lived across from me but had saved me from Poco—personally. No muscled man with an earpiece and a sidearm had done it. Where exactly was his detail? I hadn't seen any men in suits lurking around. It would have alerted me days before if I had. A thousand new warnings flew through me. But the only thing that escaped was a croaked, "Where's your detail?"

"Sent them packing," he said as if it was no big deal. Instead, he offered me a cup with a face that remained blank. "You want sugar? Cream?"

A dozen more questions swung through me, including why he'd let go of the detail and what he was doing in Cherry Bay. But instead of asking, I simply responded to him, saying, "Sugar, please."

He offered up a blue-glazed cannister, and our fingers collided, sending a new round of aftershocks through me and reminding me the attraction I'd felt was real—and yet even more ridiculous now that I knew who he was. He watched as I scooped sweetener into the tea and swirled it around. I wouldn't be embarrassed by using the sugar to offset the bite of the tea. After all, the art of cooking was about balancing one flavor against the other.

I placed the spoon in the sink, and when he continued to just stare, I blurted out, "Why did you send them away? Isn't that dangerous for you?"

"Danger comes in a lot of different forms," he said almost wearily. "I needed some privacy and some normal before I forgot what it felt like to have it."

A pained understanding flew through me. Hadn't I'd wished for normal for years? For a past I couldn't get back? But then, I'd realized whining and complaining only hid the daily pleasures waiting around each corner, like the way a recipe came together perfectly or the joy tucked inside a laugh. But if I told him I completely empathized with him, it would likely come across as some sort of come-on rather than the truth.

And wasn't that even more ridiculousness? The idea of me coming on to the president's son. Even if, for a moment, I'd felt a brief and enticing smattering of hope that I could experience another of the joyous items on my bucket list, it had been dashed away with the knowledge of who he really was. But I could still cherish the thrill I'd had from simply touching him. The loveliness of this moment next to him in a sunny kitchen with citrus-flavored tea bursting on my tongue and the vibrant and spicy scent of him drifting through the room.

Tonight, when my day was over, when work was behind me, I'd add these memories to my journal, relish them a bit longer, and savor the pleasure of them. But for now, I needed to leave. I needed to put this stunning man behind me and get to work. If I wasn't at The Tea Spot by three, the first batch of scones would be late.

As if sensing my impending departure as I set the teacup down, Lincoln said, "You didn't tell me your name."

The words were accompanied by a wry half-grin that didn't quite reach his eyes and made me ache to see his full smile. Made me long to tease and taunt until a real, brilliant one emerged. Like the one captured on the cover of TIME magazine as he'd danced with his sister at the President's Inaugural Ball. His laughing face had been all over the media after that, dozens of GIFs sprouting out of that singular moment.

"Is your name a state secret?" he asked, lips twitching again.

My breath caught, not only because I was still waiting for that real smile to emerge but also because he was closer to the truth than he could ever know. The silence drew out as I fought for the air to answer him, and the longer I went without responding, the larger and more real his smile got until it creased the corners of his eyes and danced across his cheeks. It dazed me in a way that had me forgetting any ideas of leaving and nearly stuttering out my old name.

"W-Willow. Willow Earhart."

His lips tipped upward even more. "Any relation to Amelia?"

I shook myself out of the stunned stupor caused by his perfectly shaped mouth and dazzling white teeth. "No. But my mother wished there was a connection."

Hadn't that been the reason she'd chosen our new last name?

"You were pretty brave back there," he said, head tilting toward the window and the graveyard.

My stomach flopped. I reclaimed the teacup and took another sip, trying to steady myself while repeating, It's over. Nothing bad happened. Everything is fine. You're safe. I didn't need to tell Mom or Deputy Marshal James about it. This wasn't the Viceroys. This was some handsy local who could be shaken off.

"I didn't expect to see anyone there this early," I said. "Poco caught me off guard."

"You know him, then?"

"Everyone in town does. He works for Tall Paul," I said as if it was a known fact. Lincoln simply raised a brow in question. "Paul owns Flat Mike's, the biker bar just outside town, and the mechanic shop next door to it. He and Poco are Cherry Bay's criminal element in its full glory."

The US Marshals had investigated them before we'd moved here, and they had no ties to any of the gangs in Chicago. No way for our presence here to get back to Aaron and his thugs. At least, it was what Deputy Marshal James had promised while also telling us to stay clear of Paul.

"He's hit on you before." It wasn't a question. It was a snarl of disapproval. When I didn't respond, Lincoln said, "He won't be happy about how tonight went down."

Outside, a crash of thunder and a streak of lightning was followed immediately by the pounding of hail on the windows. I hadn't looked at the weather before I'd set out this morning or even registered the scent of rain over the smell of the cherry blossoms.

But the sound of the storm jerked me back to my reality. Not only to the increasingly desperate need to get to work before all the pastries were late, but also to the fact that this man was unattainable for more reasons than just who his family was.

I squared my shoulders, set down my cup, and dug around in my bag for my umbrella. It was my mini one and wouldn't do much to keep me dry in this deluge, but it would have to do. I'd get through it. It was just water.

"I have to leave, or I'll be late for work," I said.

"It's not even three in the morning."

His shocked tone caused my lips to twitch. "Baker's hours. If I don't get into the kitchen soon, the scones will be late. I work at The Tea Spot, which is why I was surprised I hadn't seen you in there before."

He hesitated for a beat before asking, "Will you be there by yourself?"

"Until sixish."

He glanced out the bay window where a row of pots with brightly colored flowers were carefully lined up. Lincoln was full of surprises—and not just because he'd offered to help some random woman in the middle of the night. The brewing anger and darkness hovering around him were also unexpected, especially when the media portrayed him as some careless partier living off his trust fund and his father's fame. If I believed what the news said, I wouldn't have expected him to stick his nose out for anyone.

"You'll get drenched walking," he said. "I'll drive you."

He was back to being annoyed and put out at the inconvenience of it all, which only made me want to soothe him again, so I gave him a reassuring smile I reserved for the rare irate customer. "It's not that far, and I'm used to walking."

"You're not walking," he grumbled. "Not tonight. Not in the rain and not after…" He waved toward the window and the cemetery. "Let me grab my keys."

Before I could argue, he strode from the kitchen toward the front of the house. Maybe I should have been pissed at the high-handed command, but the truth was, I didn't want to walk in the rain. And I certainly didn't want to walk in the dark after the encounter with Poco. I could ignore the tempting but mixed signals simmering between us for a few minutes longer. Just like I could ignore the temptation to explore the rest of his house to see if it was as forcefully light as this space. As if he was cloaking himself in sunshine to ease away the dark.

So, I'd let him drive me to work, and I'd thank him and send him on his way. Then, I wouldn't see him again for days, or weeks even. And when I did, there would likely be a counter between us and people around, and whatever spark I thought I'd felt would be completely gone.

Which hurt more than any other thought I'd had since he'd rescued me.

The music shut off, and the house seemed unexpectedly empty and forlorn without it.

Or maybe that was just me.

To have a glimpse of desire and lust and the imagined chance at something, only to have it pulled away, seemed unfair. But then again, I shrugged to myself, life wasn't fair. It didn't mean I couldn't relish the tantalizing memories of this morning. I'd met Lincoln Matherton in person. I'd spent a few moments in this lovely kitchen, feeling emotions I'd always wanted to feel. I'd smiled and laughed and seen him do the same. Those were the memories I'd keep from today, and I'd let go of the rest.

Lincoln came striding down the hall, sliding his arms into a gray wool jacket and fisting a set of keys. I was struck all over again by how magnificent he was. Dark and dazzling with those eyes that could peel back all your layers. The intensity of his gaze rippled across the space on invisible waves. It was the same one that had stared out from The Reporter's cover a year or two ago when he'd been declared the most handsome man under thirty.

Simply taking in the beauty of him made it incredibly easy for my smile to return. He waved me out the back door, and I focused on the pure energy of life beating around us as we raced through the onslaught of ice and rain to a black Range Rover parked at the end of the drive. He got to the car before me, opening the passenger side in a manner that made my insides melt. The longing I had for a boyfriend, dates, and love threatened to rip through the joy of the moment before I pushed it all aside. Either I'd have those things someday, or I wouldn't. But right now, I had this—a handsome man making sure I got to work safely.

I slid inside the vehicle while he jogged around the front. We were both soaked by the time the doors shut. When I looked over at him to apologize for the rain dripping onto his expensive interior, the wide smile on his face planted itself in my chest.

Another happy memory to hold.

He shook his hair and water danced through the air, landing on the dash and the center console. A bead even landed on my hand. I fought the urge to lick the single drop, wondering if it would taste like he smelled. Like anise and clove and forbidden fruit.

I returned his smile because I couldn't help it. Because he was gorgeous and kind and had taken a huge risk to come to my defense. I suddenly realized I hadn't even thanked him for it, and embarrassment flooded through me.

"I'm truly grateful for what you did. Thank you for stepping in to help me."

It wiped the pleasure from his face, stiffening his shoulders, and I wanted to kick myself for stealing the lightness from him.

"I'm glad I could be there," he grunted out as if there was a deeper meaning to that handful of words. A meaning I didn't have a key to decode.

After he'd backed out of the drive, I asked, "Are you always up at two in the morning?"

If at all possible, he went even more rigid, back so straight and tight I thought he might break at a mere touch.

"I've been unpacking. I don't like living out of boxes," he offered, but I knew it wasn't the entire truth.

His face was cast in blue shadows from the dash lights, but I thought back to him in the bright, sunny kitchen where darkness had still clung to him. Purple smudges had hung beneath his tired eyes, and there'd been an ashen sheen to his naturally bronzed skin.

I recognized that look—the aftereffects of weeks of sleepless nights.

I'd seen them in the mirror. Worse, I'd seen them eat my father alive, changing him completely. If Dad hadn't been murdered, the fatal familial insomnia would have gobbled him up and left only a vacant stare and angry, frightening words.

Worry for the man in the driver's seat tightened my stomach briefly before I remembered that the likelihood of Lincoln having the same disease was astronomical. Only sixty or so families in the entire world had FFI running through their DNA. It wasn't an actual sleeping disorder. It was a degenerative nerve disease, and it certainly would have been in the news if the president of the United States or his son had the mutated gene inside them.

Lincoln's tired eyes were likely because he'd been unpacking, just like he'd said. Of the two of us sitting in the SUV, it was only me who might have the gene. It was only me living with the unknown because I couldn't be tested while in witness protection. The risk of being identified as one of the rare people with the mutation would only increase the likelihood of the Viceroys finding me as they'd known my father had been diagnosed with it.

Not being sure if I carried the gene or not, on top of losing Dad, may have sent me into a tailspin for a few years, but now I just wanted to live as fully as possible within the bounds of witness protection protocols. It was an oxymoron of sorts, wanting to truly live while hiding at the same time. Just like it was an oxymoron to crave falling in love, knowing your own body might be the reason you can't keep it. Asking someone to take such a staggering leap into the unknown with me was like asking someone to skydive without a parachute. And so far, no one had wanted to step out of the plane.

But even if I never found someone willing to take the hurdle, I still had dozens of other joyous adventures to mark off. And I had love in all its different forms. Family. Friends. I had passion in my life, even if it was for a job and for my craft rather than from bodies twined. I wouldn't let what-ifs rule me any more than my early morning incident with a half-assed criminal.