Chapter 15

I miss you.

I know Seamus made it sound like we're doing great, and it's OK, but we should all be together.

It's messed up that we're not together. Seeing you just made me realize how much we're missing out on. Shay too, even if he's too much of a dumbass to say it.

It's still not safe..

It's been over two years. No one's looking for us. I doubt anyone was ever looking for us. You're just punishing yourself, but you've got to stop.

I set the phone down on my kitchen table, then tap it with my index finger. I'm not so sure she's right. I've felt like people are looking for me lately, their phantom stares beating into me.

But maybe that's just my awareness of Claire, right next door. So fucking close.

I've seen her a few times over the past several days—once, out on the back deck of Dick's place, staring up at the stars over the mountains, the gold of her hair backlit from a soft glow within the house. I meant to look away, but I stood riveted to my window like a damn stalker pervert—a Peeping Tom—soaking in the sight of her. Because I have a soul-deep craving for good things, and there's no question she qualifies.

Another time, she left some letters on my porch, which I guess must have been mis-delivered to her house—a first since the postman has memorized everyone's addresses.

I've seen Damien run her to town several times over the last five days, and each time I feel the burn of guilt, because I promised to teach her to drive the damn Jeep, and it was a promise I had no business making.

Nicole hasn't been around, which doesn't ease my mind, because there's something off about her. I'm convinced her presence in Vincenzo's the other day, right before I was due to show up, wasn't a coincidence. I asked Mark what they'd talked about, and all he'd say was that it concerned "business." Mark is a bookie on the sly, taking bets on everything from major sports to how long it'll take the town to remove the Christmas wreaths in January, but paranoia suggests Nicole's been asking around about me. Trying to figure out my deal. Maybe because of this matchmaking fixation Claire thinks she has.

I can't have anyone wondering too hard about who I am or why I'm here. So Claire is ten times more untouchable than when she was just my tempting neighbor.

Still. I want to know how she's been getting on. And I want to figure out a way to give her those driving lessons so I can sit in the car next to her, her warm, sweet presence beside me. Yes, I'm truly fucked, just like I told Rocket the other day, because that need is getting stronger than my aversion to being noticed.

When I first came here, I figured I deserved to be alone—that part of my punishment would be to live out the rest of my life secluded from Rosie and Seamus and everyone who mattered, living in this small, Podunk town where no one gives a shit about me. But wants have a way of asserting themselves—and it turns out that even someone who'd rather keep to himself most of the time still has a need for other people. It started with my next door neighbor insisting on being my friend, but it didn't end with him.

My Declan James phone buzzes, probably with the request for some rare, niche plant that a rich person can neglect until it withers, and I sigh before picking it up. Then I jolt a little when I see the message is from an unknown number.

Hey, man. This is Damien. I got your number from Nicole. I'm tied up in a meeting in Asheville, and I got a sinking suspicion I left the oven on this morning. Can you go check it out if you're home? There's a key in the fake rock by the front porch. I'll owe you one.

I frown at the phone as if it just gave me the finger. Then I type out a response.

Can't Claire do it?

If it makes me sound like a prick, so be it. I want confirmation that she's not over there if I'm going over.

The three dots of death appear, followed by his answer.

I can't get ahold of her.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. She doesn't have a car she can use, so unless she went for a hike—which doesn't seem like her thing—where the fuck is she?

I could ask Damien follow-up questions, but Dick's cabin is literally next door, and I don't have anywhere to be for a couple of hours. So I text back,

I'll check.

Then I give Rocket a rub and head for the door, still feeling that prickle on the back my neck, kind of like what happens to Rocket's back on the rare occasions we encounter another dog on one of our walks. I have a powerful need to know what Claire's doing, to reassure myself that she's not in any kind of danger.

I head to the house next door and retrieve the key from the fake rock, giving my head a rueful shake, because it's obvious as hell it's plastic and Mother Nature had nothing to do with it. The protective part of me doesn't much like the setup—because if you felt like breaking into a secluded house in the middle of nowhere, you'd know exactly how to get in. Of course, it's not very likely that a person who'd want to profit from a break-in would choose Dick's place as their target, especially with my better-maintained house next door, but you never know—desperate people do desperate things.

I unlock the door, and a puff of sugared, heated air hits me in the face, so maybe Damien was right to worry about the oven.

"Claire?" I call. No one answers, but I hear a soft padding sound in the kitchen.

Maybe she's here, and she couldn't hear me because she's listening to music.

Maybe I'm intruding.

I should turn and leave, but I told Damien I'd check the oven…and I also want to have eyes on her so I can make sure she's okay.

I step inside, feeling a burst of familiar as I take in the crappy wooden wainscoting, the musty smell, and the curling edges of the carpet in the front room. Most of that familiarity is good—slugging down coffee or whiskey with Dick and shooting the shit, throwing balls for Rocket and laughing when they got caught under the sofa—but my head wants to summon a fucked-up image of what I saw on my last visit. I bury it six feet down beneath dirt, because I don't want to remember. It stays buried because I'm good at shoving things down. Still, I avoid looking at the bottom of the steps.

I head toward the kitchen, walking slowly, just in case the person in there is actually an intruder. Not very likely, since typically a thief's first impulse wouldn't be to stick around and bake an I'm sorry batch of cookies. But when I reach the threshold, the only thing I see from the opening is Claire's softly swaying ass as she turns on the tap. The sink is full of dirty dishes.

I stand stock still, riveted, watching her ass as if it's a pendulum about to slice me open. Listening to the soft murmuring she's doing under her breath to whatever song is spouting in her ears. There's no reserve in her right now, no self-consciousness. This is Claire in her element.

It's wrong to stand here, to soak her in when she doesn't even realize I'm here, so I shake off the haze and step forward. "Claire."

Her hand scrabbles for something in the sink, settling on a rubber spatula. She hurls it at my head as she whips around, the projectile coming toward me so fast I don't have time to duck. It doesn't hit hard, but it leaves sweet-smelling batter smeared across my face before it falls to the linoleum floor.

"Holy shit," she says, her hand lifting to her mouth. "I'm so sorry." As if realizing she's speaking loudly, nearly shouting, she flinches and removes her earbuds, setting them down on the counter.

I lick the corner of my mouth. "Vanilla. Nice. Thanks for the taste."

She grabs a dishtowel from the counter, her eyes rounding, and steps into my space. Her hand lifts to my face, and she starts wiping away the batter. When she reaches my lips, she looks up, her eyes meeting mine, then holds my gaze as she slowly wipes the rest of my face, her soft touch radiating through me.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, and even though I know better, I reach for her hand, holding it to my cheek for a moment before squeezing and releasing it. She drops the towel but doesn't step back, and neither do I.

"You already said that. But I'm the one who let myself into your house and startled you. It serves me right that you beat me with your spatula. I'm lucky you weren't using a rolling pin."

She's standing close enough that I imagine I can feel her breath across my skin, warm and sweet, like whatever's baking in the oven. "What are you doing here? I'm pretty sure I locked the door. I always lock the door. New York reflexes."

"There's a key in the very fake-looking rock outside. Damien asked me to stop by. He thought he might have left on the oven."

She frowns. "The only thing either of them have prepared in here is a Pop-Tart. And Nicole burned it."

I shift on my feet, suddenly feeling like a tool. Of course she was here. I'd known that the second I smelled the sweet scent wafting from the kitchen. The only reason I'd still came in was because I'd wanted to lay eyes on her. The rest had been a lie I'd told myself. The business of why Damien had wanted me to stop by in the first place was something I could think about later, although maybe Claire has a point about their weird matchmaking game. I wouldn't mind that much, under other circumstances.

"I don't know," I say, "but I figured I'd do the neighborly thing and check." I scratch my head. "He said you weren't answering your phone."

She purses her lips. "I was in the zone. I never check my phone when I'm in the zone. It drives my dad crazy."

It's probably time for me to leave. I've broken into her house, interrupted her baking. But I find myself saying, "Do you make a habit of beating him with spatulas too?"

"I have, before," she says with a little smile. "I'm jumpy."

There's a dusting of flour on her cheekbone, and without letting myself think too hard about it, I lift my fingers and wipe it off.

Her lips part, and she must really want to make me suffer, because she licks them.

"Normally I'd be at work right now," she says in a rush, "but Mrs. Rosings is getting a chemical peel. Well, she didn't say it's a chemical peel, but she told me she was going to the dermatologist and would be ‘a little under the weather,' and I can read between the lines. Besides, no one has skin like that when they're seventy unless they pay for it."

"What?" I ask, dumbstruck by everything she just said. The last I'd seen of Mrs. Rosings was the white of her hair as she walked away from us without a backward glance. I'd figured it was the last I'd ever see of her.

"A chemical peel. You know, they burn off the top layer of skin." Her lips lift again. "Actually, I don't really know what they do, but Agnes used to get them all the time."

"It was the part about Mrs. Rosings that threw me…and you working for her."

"Oh, I didn't tell you," she says, stepping forward and capturing my arm in her hand. Heat razes through me. "Mrs. Rosings lives in Marshall. She's organizing her son's wedding, for some reason, and I'm helping her." Her mouth scrunches to the side. "Sort of. She has very decided opinions about what she wants, and I have to be honest, most of them are bad."

"How did this happen?"

"I guess she and Dick were…involved. She was named in his will, so Nicole and I went over to deliver her bequest." She frowns. "How come you didn't recognize her? You said he used to bring women over to your deck."

I snort. "Does Mrs. Rosings strike you as the kind of woman who'd be impressed by my mountain view? She wasn't one of them. Your father wasn't what you'd call a one-woman man."

"Like you."

I'm not sure whether I'm imagining it, but I hear a hint of accusation in her voice. I stoop to grab the rubber spatula and return it to the sink. "Different. I don't make a habit of pretending to be something I'm not."

Or can't be. But it comes down to the same thing. It also means I shouldn't be here, talking to the very woman I've vowed to stay away from. It means that I shouldn't be happy that she'll be sticking around—that I'll see her, or at least glimpses of her, every day. But there's no denying the warmth the thought puts in my gut. Or the feeling of possibility it creates. "You'll be here awhile, then."

She puts a hand on her hip, drawing my gaze there. "Don't sound so disappointed."

"I'm not. Just making an observation."

She watches me for a second, her golden gaze shaking something loose inside of me, then says, "Dick put it in his will that Nicole and I have to stay at the house for a month before we can inherit it."

My first thought was, of course he did. Dick liked playing any kind of game. He was Mark's best customer, always betting on one thing or another, and he could get other people in on the action by the sheer force of his enthusiasm. He's the one who came up with the Christmas wreaths bet. Almost the whole town took part in that one, and I'm convinced it's what pressured the mayor into ponying up the money to pay Rex, the go-to guy for odd jobs, to take them down.

Dick had given him plenty of crap for it, on account of he'd done it the day before Dick and a few other guys had predicted. Of course, that was probably more the mayor's doing—a not-so-subtle fuck you—but Dick had never expected anything of the people who were "in charge of shit." He'd thought little guys should stick together.

I'd never partaken in any of Mark's gambles, because I'd seen firsthand what gambling could do to people, and to their loved ones long after they died.

But Dick had lived to play the odds. If there wasn't a chance to win—or lose—he wasn't interested. The only thing he liked better was cheating the system so it slanted in his favor.

Could be he'd figured his daughters were the same way. Or maybe he considered it his last chance to sucker other people into playing a game with him. Either way, it means I get at least three more weeks of Claire.

"He liked having his way," I say, clearing my throat. Feeling a pulse of emotion. Of missing the old bastard, partly. Of relief, that she'll be around for a good long while. Of worry, because I'm not supposed to care, but I do.

"Don't most men? I'll bet you like having your way."

She doesn't say it seductively, but that's the way the words hit anyway, standing there in this sweet-smelling kitchen with a woman who's half sunshine. "I do," I admit, my voice gruff. Nodding to the oven, I ask, "What are you baking?"

Her eyes widen, and she darts for the baking mitt sitting out on the counter. "Shit!"

Reading the room, I open the oven door for her, letting out a puff of sweet-smelling steam, and she darts her gloved hand inside to retrieve the tray of shell-shaped cookies. Madeleines.

They smell delicious, but she's already shaking her head as she sets them on the counter and I shut the oven door. She takes off the glove and gently presses one of them.

"They're overcooked," she says, sounding crestfallen, and she's so fucking cute, I can't help but laugh. She throws her mitt at me, still warm from the oven. "You should never laugh at someone who's just ruined a whole tray of madeleines. It would be like if a whole spread of starters died."

"I've killed plenty of plants in my day," I say, smiling at her. "When I was seven, I fed my favorite potted plant a cup of coffee."

"You didn't!"

"I did. I'd overhead my father saying coffee grounds were good for plants, so I figured if the grounds were good, a whole cup would be even better. And I added creamer because my mother said coffee was no good without it."

"I'll bet you were adorable," she says with a smile. "You probably got away with murder."

My smile slips, but I nod to the pan. "You're making madeleines. You bring that with you? There's no way Dick had a specialty pan for them."

She laughs. "No, Mrs. Rosings had two of them. She gave it to me after telling me a long story about her cousin Jennifer."

"The one with herpes?"

Her laughter is delighted this time. "Yes, but this time she had scabies."

"Poor Jennifer." I nod to the pan. "Have you made them before?"

"They're my white whale." She tucks some hair behind her ear. "You know, from Moby Dick."

I smile at her. "I read the CliffsNotes, same as everyone else in high school. Well, maybe not you. You don't strike me as a CliffsNotes kind of girl."

"Not normally. But there are only so many synonyms for water one person can take." She prods the same madeleine as before and sighs. "I can never get the texture right."

"Can I try one?"

"If you want to torture yourself by eating a subpar madeleine," she says, but she seems pleased that I asked.

It's still hot, but it slides right out of the tray, and I feel the weight of her gaze as I bite into it. I'm probably burning my mouth, but it's worth it. I can't think of a single thing wrong with it. Then again, I'm in the burned Pop-Tarts camp of baking. I'm also getting the sense that Claire's a perfectionist.

"It's perfect," I say, partly because I want to see how she'll react. "I'll happily accept your reject leftovers."

"Oh, they're definitely not perfect," she says. "The crumb feels wrong."

My mouth hikes up. "I might know someone who'll let you in on her super-secret madeleine recipe."

She tilts her head. "Oh?"

"We'll see what she can do for us," I say, then pull out my burner phone, which I always carry with me just in case, and type off a text to Rosie.

When I glance up, I'm surprised to see Claire frowning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, but her tone is tense, and I get the sense it's not about the cookies.

My phone buzzes a few times, rapid fire, with Rosie's response.

Why? Are you baking something to impress a woman?

You never bake and you NEVER try to impress women.

Here it is. I look forward to getting an update later.

So that's one of us looking forward to that.

"Got it," I say, showing the screen to her. "She won some kind of prize for them, but it was in middle school, so don't get too excited."

"Rosie," she says slowly, reading the screen, and I kick myself mentally for being a fool again. "Is she one of your…friends?"

For a second, I'm undecided. I shouldn't share Rosie's name, but at the same time, what harm will it do? Rosie herself always says I'm too careful, too closed off. That the life I've been living is no kind of life. Besides, I could dismiss the hint of jealousy in Claire's voice with a few words, and I want to. Even though we haven't made any promises to each other, I don't want her to think I'd casually text another woman, an ex-something, with her around. So I say, "She's my little sister. The one who likes to bake and has an Agnes Lewis obsession." I eye the counter. Claire's got all the ingredients still laid out, but it's not a mess, the way it is when Rosie gets it into her head to make something. "Do you have any ingredients left?"

"Yeah…" she says, her eyes questioning.

"So why don't we give it a try?"

"You want to make madeleines with me? Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Here. I promised Damien I'd check on the oven, and I wouldn't be doing my neighborly duty if I left you here with it on."

"You really want to make madeleines with me?"

Fucking her would be dumb, but this is stupider.

She's already started to mean something to me, and if I spend more time with her, she'll become more important. I can already feel my life stretching to make space for her. My gaze searching her out every time I get back to my house, or someone leaves hers. And the messed-up part is that right now, at least, I don't care.

Maybe Shay and Rosie are right, and I've been taking too hard of a line. Maybe no one cares about us and no one's looking. Maybe…

"You're seriously going to make madeleines with me in the middle of the day?" She's grinning, her whole face lighting up with it.

"Unless there's a plant emergency."

"Does that happen?" she asks.

"What do you think?"

She shakes her head slightly as she reaches for an apron on the hook by the back door—something she must have bought or brought with her, because Dick sure as hell never wore an apron.

"I think you'd better put this on."

I glance down at the front and snort at the slogan Eat it or Starve.

Actually, maybe it did belong to Dick.