Page 23 of The Exit Strategy

“Why did he leave?”

“It didn’t work out.”

“Cole.” I wait until he looks at me. “If what I’m seeing is correct, it isn’t justnot working out. It’s a felony. Multiple felonies, actually. Why haven’t you gone to the police?”

A shadow clouds his eyes—like he’s holding a grenade and choosing to absorb the blast rather than let anyone else get hit.

“It’s complicated, Junie.”

“It’stheft, Cole.”

“I know what it is.” His voice has dropped to a register I’ve only heard him use twice before. Once the night Nolan told him my mom was gone, and once when I overheard him ask Nolan if I was okay after he left.

Every instinct I possess is fuming, screaming at me to push him now because that’s what I do. I pry and dig and shove my way through until the truth is laid bare and bloody on the floor.

But there’s something in his body language, his voice, that stops me. He’s known to be a martyr, but why is he standing in this wreckage all alone?

“There’s a county tax assessment coming up,” I say instead, pulling back to the facts that don’t require emotional involvement. I’ve been there, done that, and ended up in tatters. I can’t—I won’t go there again. “If these books aren’t clean by then, it won’t just be your reputationon the line. The residents could be assessed penalties, Cole. Property values could drop. The empty homes won’t sell. Some of these people have planned their retirement around your community standards. Not everyone will be able to absorb these costs.”

His knuckles go white around his coffee mug, and fine, a tiny glimmer of guilt lodges itself in my throat.

“How long do we have?”

“Six weeks. Maybe eight if I can stall by filing an extension.”

He nods. Just once. “Well, then, Viper. I guess you’re stuck with me for at least eight weeks because I’ve spent the last two months trying to find a way out of this clusterfuck and I couldn’t do it.” His gaze darkens, burning through my existence as if he’s searching my soul for something he won’t name. “I need you, Junie.”

I should hate how relieved that makes me. I do hate how his words incinerate the spite I thrive on. “Don’t flatter me now, Whittaker. You need me to fix your spreadsheets, sure, but me, as a person? You left her behind six years ago.”

He sucks in a breath I pretend not to hear as I scurry to my makeshift office. Maybe I should work at the clubhouse from now on.

The more space I can put between me and Cole, the better, because he doesn’t need me. He needs someone, but not me.

Apparently, he still has Natalie in his life, and that alone is reason enough to keep my walls heaven-high.

The next morning,I skip the breakfast I was invited to at the clubhouse. Not on purpose—not really. Makingfriends has never been my thing, and everyone here wants to be a friend.

I also woke up at the crack of dawn and got lost in the vendor files I snuck into my apartment late last night and promptly forgot that community meals are monitored events around here.

My mistake announces itself at 8:45 when I hear a strange rumble.

Not thunder or a roaring engine, but a pack of semi-electric golf carts that have been…optimized for maximum speed.

Pulling back the curtain, I count eight of them idling from the base of my stairs all the way down Cole’s long driveway in a formation that would make any marching band director proud. Stanley is front and center with his walkie-talkie while he fights with Marley, who’s holding a clipboard in the air like a weapon.

What in the fresh hell is this?

“Juniper!” Stanley shouts to the heavens. “This here’s a Safe Haven Wellness Committee check. Please confirm signs of life!”

He—this—he’s joking, right?

Behind him, Cole’s front door opens, and he stands there in a button-down, holding a steaming mug of caffeine-free coffee.

And he flashes a blinding, infuriating grin toward my window. He didn’t even give me one goddamn warning, and I know for a fact that he went to the breakfast this morning because I may or may not have watched him leave.

Cole sees me staring at him, and he beckons me out with a come-hither finger. I despise his stupid sexy fingers.

“Juniper Marie Mercer, are you in there?” Marley calls next.