“Maxton doesn’t even know about the house fire. Doubt he’d care. Mom rewrote the will to leave the house to me after it became clear he was never going to come help take care of her.”
“You haven’t called him?”
“We haven’t talked since he skipped out on Mom’s funeral. Anyway, what about your family?” she asks. “You said you’re an only child.”
My story’s well-rehearsed by now. “Dad was an electrician. Mom was a nurse. They’re both gone.”
“Where were you born? In New York?”
Her questions remind me I've already slipped with her once when she asked me where I came from that time I drove her home.
I’d hoped she’d forget it.
Sandro and I have Nevada IDs, and our records say we’re both from Philly, but I told Blake that before I came to Darkwater Hollow, I was in New York.
I’ve got to straighten out my backstory.
“I wasn’t born there, no. I’m originally from Philly, and I spent a long time in Vegas.”
“And then you said you went to New York. I’ve always wanted to visit. Did you like it there?”
I clench my jaw against the onslaught of memories. “Yeah, I did. It’s the only place where I felt at home.”
Her breath hitches as I drag my thumbs over the tight muscles in her neck. “Why’s that?”
“I had a good community there. People who I cared about and who cared about me.”
Something tightens in my chest. I miss that feeling of belonging. Of being surrounded by people who understand me. Who know therealme.
I look down at Blake. If she knew who I was, how would she react? Would she be afraid? Or would she accept the darkness in me?
There’s no point in wondering, I suppose. I can never tell her the truth.
“That sounds nice,” Blake says, a note of longing in her voice. “Why did you leave?”
My movements slow. “Had a falling out with someone important to me. A friend.”
She turns to look at me over her shoulder, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore, so I slide one hand up under her shirt to distract her and meet soft, velvet skin.
She sucks in a low breath.
God, she feels so damn good.
A flush spreads up her cheeks, and the pulse in her neck speeds up. She picks up her sweating glass—there’s only ice left inside—and rolls it back and forth over her clavicle.
I flip my hand under her shirt, letting my knuckles brush over her spine. I’m not working her muscles anymore. I’m justtouching her, and the fact that she’s not stopping me gives me a heady rush.
She turns, giving me her profile. Her lips are so fucking kissable, and I want nothing more than to tug her against my chest and claim them for myself.
Suddenly, she tenses and moves away from me.
“Shit.” She puts her hoodie back on in a rush.
“What’s wrong?” I turn to see what she’s looking at.
It’s the man who was nursing a beer earlier. He's now paying at the bar.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
