Page 30 of Straight Shooter

Rhett parked under the thick foliage of the trees that nearly overtook the brick driveway. He watched as Priss—now that she’d indulged him in using the nickname, he didn’t want to stop—stepped out of the rented Honda. She tilted her face to the sun.

“This is adorable,” she said, gesturing at the light-blue siding and yellow shutters.

He grinned, rattled the keys in his pocket, and met her at the doorstep. “I thought so. Check out the inside.” He fit the key in the lock and shoved the door, holding it open for her.

As she crossed the threshold, her shoulder brushed the inside of his arm. Her soft intake of breath sent warmth through him. The house wasn’t much, but it had been in his family for generations. His cousin had kept a lot of the original character, but updated floors, ceiling fans, and furniture gave it new-world charm.

“I love this.” She bustled through the entryway, past the hardwood staircase, and to the galley kitchen. “I never would have thought the FBI would provide such sweet accommodation.”

Rhett pulled out a bottle of sweet tea from the fridge and motioned to it. “Want some?”

“Please.”

He set out two glasses on the blue and white checkered countertop and poured. “The bureau didn’t provide this place. It was my grandma’s.”

Her mouth fell open, and she smoothed her hand over the countertop. Her lips rolled together, back and forth, back and forth. Moisture collected briefly at her lashes, and she swallowed.

“Sorry,” she said, and sipped the tea. “It’s incredible that you have something of hers. I don’t have anything that ties me to my family.” She shrugged exaggeratedly, as if to demonstrate nonchalance that she didn’t feel. “I barely even remember my parents anymore.” Her lip trembled, and she stared down at the amber liquid.

His gut clenched, and he curled his hand around the glass. Jesus, what could he say to that? Pain swallowed his heart as he thought about Priss as a child. Wild, no doubt, and lost and starving for love and connection. His questions stalled at the back of his throat—the last thing he wanted to do was upset her further. Had she been adopted? Taken in by relatives?

“What happened to them?” The need to know what she’d endured overtook his tongue. He hoped to god she hadn’t been alone.

She flashed him a tight smile. “They’re alive—I think. The most vivid memory I have is when my dad beat my mom half to death. I ran to the neighbor’s house crying and they called the cops. Before I knew it, I was whisked into child protective services and sent to a foster home. If either of them ever tried to find me I never knew it.”

The pain in his heart sent a quake throughout his body. Christ. Hot anger flashed in his blood at the thought of her being alone and scared when her parents should have protected her. “How old were you?”

“Seven.”

At seven he’d been playing with cars, and digging in his backyard for worms. His homelife had been solid and secure with two loving parents—exactly what Peyton should’ve had. The urge to trade his upbringing for hers burned a hole through his chest, but there was nothing he could do for the little girl of Peyton’s past.

“That’s so young.”

She nodded. “I met Dani when I was nine. I’d just arrived at my fourth foster home in two years and decided to set fire to their porch. I climbed the tree to watch the commotion and Dani climbed up out of nowhere. She sat right next to me and we were best friends after that.”

“And the foster parents?”

Fondness danced in her eyes. “Are saints. They saw the fire as a cry for help and never gave up on me. They adopted me a year later.”

Relief uncoiled the hard knot of pain in his chest.

She turned to survey the living room and her shoulders perked up. “Is there a pool?”

He took the change of subject as a sign that she was done talking about her childhood, and led her out to the tiny backyard. A small pool ate up half the space. The other half sported a hammock and lounge chairs.

“I can’t believe you haven’t been here in ten years.”

He walked to one of the trees, pulled off an orange, and tossed it to Priss. She caught it against her chest in one hand. Her sweet tea sloshed but didn’t spill.

“Sorry,” he said, grinning at her surprise.

She lifted the fruit to her nose and inhaled. “Ah, this smells delicious. I could live here.” She nestled into one of the chairs, set her tea down on the glass patio table, and began peeling the orange. “You’re undercover, though. Isn’t it risky to use a personal property?” She pulled off a wedge and handed it to him and he took the seat adjacent to her.

He popped it into his mouth, and its tangy citrus flavor was followed by sweetness. “Nah. My cousin owns this place now. He grew up down the road, so it made sense that the property went to him. It’s a vacation rental now, something my grandma would’ve hated, but we get to use it whenever we want.”

The sun moved from behind a cloud and beamed at her face. She squinted but didn’t block the rays. “Who’s we?”

“My parents and my other cousin, Ciara.”