In the vision, though, it’s not her face I see.
It’s Riley.
And though it might feel good in the moment, it wouldn’t after.
Besides, that’s not why I’m here. If my dick gets wet, it’ll be at my sweet little angel’s discretion, and not a moment sooner.
“Sorry about the wait,” the waitress says, wiping her hands on her apron. “Would you like a complimentary oatmeal raisin cookie, for your trouble?”
Wincing internally, I shake my head. “No trouble at all,” I say, leaning in to read her name tag, “Jade. Keep the cookie.”
Fishing into my coat pocket, I slide out from the booth and drop three hundred-dollar bills on the table, scooping the mug into my hands.
“Keep the change, too.”
I leave her standing there, stunned into silence, and head out the glass front door. An overhead bell signals my departure, and the man across the street glances my way.
His beard irritates me. It’s too long—if he buried his face between Riley’s glorious thighs, she’d be left with an uncomfortable itch.
Nothing like the sweet burn my stubble created at the tattoo shop.
Dick throbbing, I stuff a hand in my pocket to adjust, not dropping the man’s eyes once they reach mine. He makes a face, and I pull a peppermint candy out, popping it from the wrapper into my tea.
It immediately begins dissolving, and I bring it to my mouth slowly, smiling around the rim of the mug as the first scalding drops touch my lips.
The man leans down, saying something in Riley’s ear, and then he finally looks away.
My heartbeat races as he slips his hand in hers, tugging her the opposite direction, leading her farther from me.
I sip my drink, soaking in that peppermint flavor as it singes my tongue, promising silently that I’ll see her soon.
19
As I rinse a head of lettuce beneath the faucet in my kitchen sink, I try not to let my irritation bleed through my actions.
Caleb Pruitt lies on the floor in front of my dishwasher, a screwdriver in his mouth, humming Christmas tunes while replacing a hose. Despite my reassurance that I’d call a plumber in the morning, Lunar Cove’s golden boy refused to pass up the opportunity to help out.
I shouldn’t bitch—he’s about the only friend I’ve made in town, aside from Jade at the local diner.
Not to mention, him fixing the appliance keeps unnecessary strangers from coming to my home.
We met at the art gallery on the boardwalk; one night, after spending nearly a year here without leaving the house, my loneliness got the best of me and I decided to go out.
He’d been standing beside a clay sculpture of Atlas, carrying the globe on his shoulders, and I’d been so mesmerized by the sleek design and the impossibly smooth edges that I’d nearly knocked it over trying to get closer.
Turns out, Caleb owns the art gallery. The Pruitts are Lunar Cove royalty, with each of the three sons in charge of various businesses around town.
From that night on, Caleb planted himself in my life, always willing to lend a hand, even when I say I don’t need it.
That should probably worry me, but then I remember how boring it is here without a friend, and I ignore it. Hoping he gets the hint that my feelings are strictly platonic.
“You’re spending an awful lot of time on that lettuce,” he calls out from across the kitchen, tilting his head back to cock an eyebrow at me. “It’s gonna start disintegrating if you don’t let up.”
Snapping out of my reverie, I shut off the sink and set the lettuce on the granite countertop to dry. Wiping my hands on my leggings, I check the farfalle pasta cooking on the stove, then grab my phone and shoot a text to my brother.
Me: Do you remember that time Mom made bow tie noodles for my eleventh birthday?
A few seconds later, his response pops up.
Boyd: Do I remember the day she nearly burned down your trailer, and made you eat black pasta?
Me: It wasn’t all burned.
Boyd: No wonder you cleaned your plate.
I’m not sure where to take the conversation next, so I wait for more; it never comes, and sadness works its way into my heart all over again.
Sighing, I lean against the kitchen island and lock my phone back, cursing myself silently for undoing any semblance of progress my brother and I had made in our relationship in the years before I left Maine.
“Are you okay?” Caleb asks, pushing away from the dishwasher as he gets to his feet.
I nod, forcing a smile. “Just my brother being his annoying self.” Turning around, I move to stir the homemade tomato sauce—a recipe I got from Kal’s Italian wife—and lift a shoulder. “You have two brothers, though. I don’t have to tell you what that’s like.”
Caleb rests his hip on the island. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
The cogs in my brain skid to a halt, and panic swells in my chest. My hand continues stirring, kinetic energy propelling the movement.
“We have a complicated relationship,” I say, settling on a half-truth. “I don’t really talk about him much.”
He grunts. “Not even once in the two years we’ve been friends?”
Pressing my lips together, I shrug. “Guess it’s never really come up.”
I feel his dark eyes boring into the side of my head, but I keep mine trained on the sauce. Finally I see him nod in my peripheral vision, and he seems to relax.
“Well, I know better than to push you for information. Don’t want you to lock me out on the deck again.”
The tension in my shoulders lessens slightly, and a laugh pushes from my throat. “I’m not that bad.”
“It was the middle of a snowstorm,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “And all I asked was if you needed extra firewood.”
“And then you learned I have a gas fireplace.” Glancing over at the gray stone mantel, I try not to think of the one at my brother’s house, and how this one seems empty in comparison.
Overall, the entire cabin is pretty empty; sure, it came fully stocked with handcrafted pine furniture that matches the paneling on the walls and vaulted ceilings, but since I can’t acknowledge my old life without risking my safety, no personal effects decorate the place.
The lakefront and mountainside views through the ceiling-to-floor windows, though, are almost enough to make up for it.
Almost.
After a prolonged silence, Caleb jumps back into fixing the dishwasher, and I strain the pasta, emptying both pots into respective serving dishes and setting them in the oven for a minute to cool down.
When he’s finished, I offer him a plate, and we eat standing at the island, staring out the back windows.
There’s another cabin just beyond the lake, uninhabited for years, according to the locals. Movement catches my eye, though, a dark figure lurking in the shadowy corner of a window upstairs, and an uneasy feeling settles in my gut, putting me on edge.
Then I blink, and the figure’s gone, the house as still as always. Leaving me to wonder if I made it all up.
Spearing a piece of pasta with his fork, Caleb nudges me with his shoulder. “So, you gonna attend the art show coming up? The focus is on indigenous folklore.”
I poke at my food, pushing it around my plate. “That sounds interesting, but I don’t know…”
“If you feel weird about the crowd, I can always escort you.”