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I peer up at him, finding those eyes on me. They trace the seam of my lips, the tip of my nose and chin, then snare on my bobbing throat.
My reaction seems to amuse him, and I damn near shudder when he leans closer. “If you want any more information out of me, it’ll cost you.”
I seal my lips, not daring to ask his price, but damn if I don’t envy his confidence. How easily he holds my gaze when I’m struggling like hell to hold his. How his posture exudes power and grace, and each word is deliberate and intentional.
When Rowan steps toward the table to remove his suit jacket, I’m all but gasping for air. He drapes it across a chair, and I do not gape at his back or the muscles bunching beneath his dress shirt.
“Where do we start?” he asks, narrowly missing my staring.
Get it together, woman!
Not sure what’s come over me, I say, “Right. The yearbooks are this way.”
A cloud of deliciously rich cologne surrounds us as he trails after me, and when we stop between the two stacks, I can practically feel his body heat radiating off him.
“T-they’re categorized by year, obviously,” I stammer, pointing in the general direction of the high school section. “But sometimes they get mixed up.”
Rowan’s brows scrunch as he peruses the spines one by one, unconsciously leaning into my personal space. I grow antsier by the minute being stuck in here with him and all his… I don’t know, alluring masculinity?
It’s fogging my brain and, in turn, all the reasons why I shouldn’t find him attractive in the slightest.
“I’ll help you look,” I say, eager to hurry this up. “What year was it again?”
“1981 to 1985.” He’s too focused on the books on the top shelf to stop his elbow from accidentally bumping my forehead. “Shit. I’m sorry about that.”
We laugh it off, but the inches between us gradually shrink the longer we continue our search, and what began as accidental bumps become suspiciously more intentional.
“So, um, what’s your mom’s name?” I ask, though I’m assuming she’s one of the country club elites. “Maybe I’ve heard of her.”
“Amelia Kend—” He shakes his head while he rolls up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. “Sorry, it would have been Radley. Still getting used to that.”
Forearms aren’t a body part I’d normally consider attractive, but there’s something undeniably sexy about his.
My hands freeze when what he said finally registers. “You’re related to the Radleys?”
Does he know about Sam, too?
“Apparently. My grandfather was Thomas.” He pauses, asking with a hint of caution, “I don’t suppose you knew him?”
“Only from the stories my dad used to tell me, but the Radleys have been like royalty in Magnolia Creek for decades. There used to be a lot of them who lived here, and according to Dad, when the estate was given to Thomas, he got greedy and locked the doors to the manor, keeping everyone out, including his daughter and his siblings.” I swallow a knot, unsure how much he knows about his mother’s disappearance from town. “I’m sorry to hear that he passed, though.”
“Save your apology,” he says gruffly. “I didn’t know him.”
“Oh-kay. Touchy subject. Got it.”
His face gives nothing else away before he presses, “Do you recall anything about my mother?”
“Just rumors that she vanished suddenly. The whole town thought something awful must have happened to her… I’m sorry, I wish I had more to tell you.”
“That’s all right,” he says, heating my skin with a hand on my lower back. He gently moves me to comb through another section, and adds, “I appreciate it.”
My fingers hover over a blank space between the years labeled 1980 and 1986. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s either checked them out or misplaced them.”
Doing some quick math, I stretch up on my tippy-toes for the section at the top of the stack.
