Great Big Beautiful Life(12)

Hayden, meanwhile, is stalking ahead, eyes on the prize (the prize being getting the hell away from me, apparently).

I throw one last wave over my shoulder as I follow the bend in the path that leads to the gate.

Hayden has left it open for me, and I hurry after him to the quiet, moonlit country road beyond. “So,” I say, “should we talk schedule?”

“Schedule?” He doesn’t slow his pace.

I jog to catch up with him by our cars, his parked in front of mine.

“I was thinking we could divvy the days up, so you work with her Monday through Wednesday, and I take Thursday to Saturday.”

He stops and faces me so suddenly I nearly collide with his chest. Instead, I screech to a halt close enough that I have to tip my head up to meet his eyes. “Then you would get the weekend and I’d only get weekdays.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then I’ll take Monday through Wednesday, and you take Thursday through Saturday.”

“Then you only have weekdays,” he points out.

I laugh. “And that’s a problem for you?”

“I assume you’re still writing for The Scratch, and I’ll need time for my freelance work. We’ll both need some weekdays free,” he says. “Plus, to get a full picture of a subject, you’ll need a more complete view of her schedule.”

I feel my brow inch up toward my bangs. “So, what, you’re looking out for me? Instead of just taking the upper hand?”

Just more proof that there’s always more to people than what you see first.

He rolls his eyes and turns away from me, stalking toward his car. “Trust me,” he calls as he pauses to unlock his car door, nothing but a huge shadow against the moonlight, “I don’t need an upper hand.”





5




Despite being in his car with the door shut, headlights on, and engine purring, Hayden doesn’t speed away until I’m in my car with the door locked.

Maybe he actively doesn’t want me to get murdered on a dark country road out by the marsh, or maybe it’s just coincidence, but I’m choosing to be positive.

He can’t be as bad as he seems. And even if he is, it’s not like we’ll be spending time together.

I roll my windows down and pull away from Margaret’s house, listening to the soothing hum and murmur of a Georgia night.

Briefly, I consider calling my mom to let her know the news. But it’s after ten, and she’s always been an early bird. Besides, it’s probably best to wait until I see how things shake out. I’ll let her know I’m close by for work, schedule a time to visit her, but wait to divulge anything else until I know which way the scales are tipping.

I glide back onto the mostly empty four-lane road that connects the mainland to Little Crescent and slow to a stop at a red light. Hayden’s in the next car over. He notices me too. I wave. He frowns.

The light turns green and we both pull through.

It feels like we’re both trying to not drive side by side, but the stoplights keep foiling us. We pass Little Croissant and the other shops, and I get into the lane behind him so at least we aren’t taking turns passing each other anymore.

At the Main Street intersection, I follow him through a right turn back toward tourist town and into the parking lot of the Grande Lucia Resort.

He turns left down an aisle, so I turn right. In the end, we wind up parking three spaces apart.

He takes the same staircase that I’ve been taking to and from my room.

I slow my pace, but surprisingly, he pauses halfway up the first set of steps when he realizes I’m behind him.

Not only does he pause, he actually turns toward me and makes eye contact. Huge progress for us. Friendship bracelets incoming, surely.

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday,” he grunts.

“Good days,” I say.

“Or,” he says, “Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. You choose which you want. You’ll be able to spend Friday or Saturday evening with her that way, if you want, and we’ll either alternate Sundays or take them off, depending on what she prefers.”

I stop on the same step as him, considering the plan. “When would we start?”

“I plan to get all of this”—he lifts the paperwork—“wrapped up tomorrow. Friday and Saturday can be our first research days.”

“How did you find her?” I ask.

His brow knits at the question. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Really?” I ask. “Why?”

“Because you don’t need to know,” he says.

“I’ll tell you how I found her,” I say, dangling the offer like a carrot.

“I’m not interested.” He resumes climbing, and I follow.

We reach the first-floor landing and both keep going. “You’re already here,” I point out. “Knowing how I got here doesn’t do you any good. Just like you telling me how you found out about Margaret wouldn’t give me any kind of edge.”

“I really don’t see why you care,” he says.

“I’m curious,” I say. “It wasn’t easy figuring this out.”

He casts me a suspicious sidelong glance as we reach the second landing. “So you’re impressed,” he says dryly.