“Lionshead, how can I help?” a man says after picking up on the second ring. I know by the timbre of his voice that it’s the young guy who started working there last season, and the wicked grin that’s been lodged on my face since I departed from the Capeside Inn grows a little wider. He’s the quiet type, a little shy. He’s just there to make enough to pay his rent. And he doesn’t give a shit about things like rules, or privacy.
“Hey, I’m the delivery driver for Milo’s Pizza,” I say, keeping my voice disaffected. “Some guy with the last name McMillan ordered delivery to the Lionshead, but Milo’s handwriting is shit and I can’t make out the room number. He’s not picking up the phone either. Can you tell me which room I’m supposed to go to so Milo doesn’t ride my ass for a late delivery?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me a second.” My smile could be seen from space. I reach toward the back seat and grab the empty pizza box along with a couple of choice goodies from my bag as the sound of keyboard tapping fills the line. “Room three-twenty.”
“Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You got it.”
I disconnect the line and leave the car with the pizza box in hand, my blood fizzing with adrenaline. I’m a pizza delivery driver, I tell myself as I walk around the hedges that frame the Lionshead parking lot. There are a few cars scattered in front of the motel rooms, but all the curtains are closed. There’s no one around.
My attention homes in on the door for Room 320.
I’m meant to be here. I’m just doing my job. And it’s funny how easily you can slip through society when you don’t just tell a lie, but you embrace it. If you make the effort to believe it, often everyone else does too.
I take a deep breath, dim the wicked edge in my smile to something less sinister, and knock three times on the door.
“Pizza delivery,” I call, my voice chipper. A disgruntled groan rumbles on the other side of the door. “Pepperoni with extra cheese? For … McMillan?”
A string of weary expletives and slippers dragging over tile grow louder as he approaches the door. My expression brightens as the dead bolt turns. The door swings open and McMillan glares at me, his stained T-shirt and boxers barely covered by a fraying gray robe. “I didn’t order no fuckin’ pizza—”
I lift the pizza box enough that he can see the gun I hold beneath it, the silencer aimed at his navel. Surprise ignites in his bloodshot eyes.
“Come with me, Mr. McMillan,” I say, releasing the safety with a threatening click, “and I might just let you live.”
FATHOMSNolan
IT’S NEARLY NOON. AND I’M standing on the street outside Harper’s cottage like a fucking obsessed loser.
I push the sleeves of my charcoal-gray Henley up to my elbows. She likes my forearms. I think. She stares at them a lot. Unless I’m fucking delusional, which … probably tracks. She seems to like these tactical work pants I wear sometimes, too. “Is that part of your uniform?” she’d asked a few nights ago, gesturing to my trousers and work boots.
“I don’t really have a uniform other than a vest and jacket, but … I guess so.”
I still feel the heat beneath my skin from the way her gaze dropped down the length of me a fraction slower than what would be deemed appropriate for a nemesis, unless she was searching for the most painful place to knife me. “Hmm,” was all she’d said before returning to her work. But I still caught the little glance she tossed my way.
I brush away the nonexistent dust from my clothes. Maybe she’ll like what she sees? It shouldn’t matter, but increasingly, it feels like it does.
This is stupid. Leave her alone.
With a frustrated sigh, I turn away as though I’ll actually manage to convince myself to walk back to the Capeside Inn. And then I turn again, facing her house once more.
When she didn’t reply last night to my text about picking her up, and then never showed to excavate Arthur’s victims, I tried to convince myself that she just needed some space to process our mind-blowingly hot sex from the night before. Well, I thought it was mind-blowing. The best sex I’ve ever had, and I know it’s not just the mushrooms talking. It just felt right with her. Natural. Like our energy fit together, two magnets snapping into place. But maybe she doesn’t feel the same way, and it chews me up. She still didn’t reply this morning. And when I texted her an hour ago, she didn’t reply to that either.
As the minutes have trudged onward, I’ve become increasingly worried about her. She’s usually so responsive. This isn’t like her. It’s bad enough that she might be avoiding me, though I could understand that, given the circumstances. But what if it’s something worse? What if she’s sick? Hurt and alone? She operates in shadowed circles. What if some of those ghosts have caught up with her? What if Arthur has turned on her? What if she’s—
I cut my thoughts off before they can spiral into my darkest fears and march through the gate, not stopping until I’m pounding on her door.
“Harper …” No sound comes from within her cottage. I knock again and press my ear to the door. Still nothing. “Harper.”
I catch a muffled groan that sounds as though it’s coming from the back of the house.
In a heartbeat, I’m striding down the flagstone path that skirts the side of the cottage. I’m nearly at the corner when the front door opens and I halt abruptly at the sound of my name.
“Nolan …?” Harper’s head pokes out the door, her eyes flicking toward the street before landing on me once more. “What are you doing here?”
Relief is a flood that washes through my veins. It’s followed quickly by a wave of embarrassment.
And then, suspicion.
There’s something wild in her eyes. A sharpness in their silver shards. She retreats just a little, backing into her lair like a feral creature. She looks like she’s ready to run. What I wouldn’t give to see a wicked smile flash across her face before she bolts away from me with a challenge to catch her. Maybe she’s wearing those tiny sleep shorts that highlight every curve in her ass and that low-cut tank top that hugs her breasts. The sudden fantasy of chasing her down and fucking her brutally as she screams my name goes straight to my cock.
I clear my throat in the hopes that it might somehow clear my mind too as I walk closer to the door, my steps careful and cautious.
“I was …” What do I say? I was obsessively worrying about you until I finally decided to trespass on your property, which I’ve already done several times, though you don’t know that … ? Fuck, that sounds awful. “I was at the river last night. Alone, despite the fact I don’t know where to dig. Figured I should stop by to make sure you were coming this evening, seeing as how we’ve got a strict schedule to adhere to.”
“I’ll be there.”
Her assurance is delivered with no biting edge, no roll of her eyes. And that’s what worries me the most. She retreats farther as I near the door, shielding her body behind the slab of wood so that only her face is visible in the narrow crack of light.
What if she’s naked?
What if she’s naked and not alone?
Jealousy explodes through every cell in my body, incinerating my earlier fantasies into bitter ash.
I do my best to convince myself that whatever she’s hiding is none of my business. That the only reason I care about her well-being is because it has the potential to affect me too. As soon as I’m sure she’s all right, I promise myself to go back to the inn and leave her the fuck alone. “Everything okay?” I manage, my words slow and measured.
“Yep.” She nods emphatically. “Great.”
“Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
