Lila’s stomach tightened. Understanding was now dawning.
Blaine opened the truck door like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s go. We’ll take my truck.”
Camille didn’t move. “I’ll ride with my mom.”
Blaine grabbed her arm, then immediately released it.
For the briefest second, something dark flashed in Blaine’s eyes, but he masked it quickly, his smirk sliding back into place. “Suit yourself,” he said, stepping back. But the way he watched Camille, as if waiting for her to change her mind, made Lila’s unease settle deeper.
Camille turned away first, walking toward Lila’s SUV with deliberate steps. Lila followed, her pulse ticking a little faster than before.
She didn’t know the full story yet, but one thing was certain—Camille and this boy might have created a life together, but there was no warmth between them. Lila recognized his type instantly—entitled, self-assured, the kind of young man who expected the world, and the people in it, to fall in line.
He clearly thought her daughter would be no different.
But he was wrong.
Lila had spent years raising Camille to stand strong, and she sure as heavens wasn’t going to let some cocky rich kid try to steer her now.
28
Lila pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Rustic Pine, expecting the usual low hum of conversation and the clinking of beer glasses, but instead, silence greeted her. The bar, usually packed with locals, was nearly empty. The faint strains of a country song drifted from the jukebox, and the warm glow of the antler chandeliers cast long shadows across the polished wooden floor.
The scent of grilled meat and fried onions still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint smokiness from the massive stone fireplace in the corner. A few empty glasses sat abandoned on tables, remnants of a lunch crowd that had long since cleared out. The only other sign of life in the place, besides Pete and Annie behind the bar, was Chet Olson, the town’s ever-reliable Amazon delivery man, who was hunched over a plate at the bar, cutting into a chicken-fried steak with singular focus.
Chet was a lanky man with a weathered face, a permanent cap of salt-and-pepper stubble, and a habit of talking to himself when he thought no one was listening. His faded blue uniform shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as if he’d come straight from a long shift. He took a slow bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded to himself as if mentally rating the meal.
Annie, drying a glass with a dish towel, arched an eyebrow at him. “Good as always, Chet?”
Chet swallowed, then stabbed another piece with his fork. “Ain’t never had a bad one, Annie.” He took a sip of iced tea and glanced over as Lila and Camille walked in. “Ladies.”
Pastor Pete wiped his hands on a rag and grinned. “You’ve got the place to yourselves tonight. Everyone cleared out early.”
Lila nodded, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on a single occupied table in the farthest corner.
Blaine Newcomb and his mother—better known as the interminable Senator Claudia Newcomb, whose air of disapproval was so thick you could slice it with a steak knife.
She sat ramrod straight at a small table, her spine as unyielding as the high-backed chair she occupied. Everything about her screamed out of place—from her perfectly tailored cream-colored jacket and cashmere sweater to the way she held a martini glass between her delicate fingers, as if reluctant to let it touch her skin.
Her short, icy blonde hair was styled with precision, not a strand out of place, and her jewelry—nothing oversized or gaudy, just expensive—gleamed in the dim lighting. The expression on her face was impossible to miss—lips pressed into a thin, unamused line, nose slightly wrinkled, eyes scanning the room with the air of someone who had just stepped into a particularly distasteful situation.
Lila slowed her steps.
Claudia’s sharp gaze flicked toward them before settling on Lila. There was no warmth in her expression, no polite nod of acknowledgment—just a cool, assessing look, as if she were deciding whether to acknowledge their presence at all.
Lila swallowed the urge to react in some way. Instead, she lifted her chin and slid into an empty chair before introducing herself. “Hello, I’m Lila Bellamy. Camille’s mother.”
The woman stared back. “Claudia Newcomb—Senator Claudia Newcomb.” She turned to Camille. “You must be Camille.”
Camille nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
Blaine raised an arm and snapped his fingers, a sharp, impatient sound that cut through the low hum of conversation. Pete, standing behind the bar, caught the motion and hustled over, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
“What can I get you?” Pete asked, keeping his tone neutral despite the rude summons.
“Double cheeseburger—Swiss, no cheddar. And sweet pickles. No dill,” Blaine ordered, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.
Without a glance towards her, Blaine ordered for Camille. “She’ll have a salad with ranch on the side and a to-go container,” he said, then leaned back, smirking. “Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you want to get fat.”
