Page 8 of Taken Away

Then, just as abruptly, he stepped back, letting his hands fall away.

Aubrey stood there, swaying slightly, her mouth open and her lips swollen. The cool air hit her skin like a physical shock. Bennett looked at her, his expression unreadable in the firelight.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “That’s what I thought.”

He turned on his heel and walked off the patio, disappearing beyond the firelight before she could even find her breath.

“Jerk,” she whispered, but her fingers were trembling as she touched her lips.

Turning back to the railing, she stared out into the mist, watching the red glow of his taillights fade down the road. Good Lord. She’d come out here for a quiet drink and a chance to forget and instead been blindsided by a rough-around-the-edges mountain man who clearly lacked basic manners.

You didn’t meet men like that in Philly.

As the wind brushed against her face, her skin still burned where he’d held her.

And God help her, it had felt good.

TWO

The Cotton Exchange

Aubrey Langford

Aubrey woke up in her hotel room with the phantom scent of last night clinging to her hair.

She spent twenty minutes in the shower trying to wash away the memory of the patio, but the hot water only worked against her. As steam filled the small stall, her mind betrayed her. She closed her eyes under the spray and, instead of thinking about why she’d come to Sylva, she felt the lingering press of his mouth. When she reached up to rinse the shampoo from her hair, her thumb brushed her lower lip. It still tingled, as if her nerves hadn't gotten the memo that last night was over.

She was not here to be rattled by a man who dressed like a lumberjack, drank whiskey like anesthesia, and probably thought a board meeting was something you built with nails.

Get a grip, she told herself, twisting the handle hard to cold. The icy shock hit her chest, forcing a sharp breath from her lungs, and shattering the memory.

Ten minutes later, she pulled her damp hair back into a smooth chignon, not letting a single strand escape. She slipped into a charcoal suit that screamed executive, painted on blood-red lipstick, and put her game face back on.

The red brick loomed over Main Street, soaked to a deep charcoal by the morning mist. Inside, the brass directory gleamed like it had been polished every hour.

Harper & Associates occupied the entire top floor.

The elevator groaned upward, a mechanical sigh that ended when the doors slid back onto wide-plank oak and exposed brick. It didn’t look like a mountain law office; it looked like a high-end firm in Charleston curated for a magazine spread. Tall windows framed the Blue Ridge peaks like expensive art.

Aubrey stepped out, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm against the wood. Three days after Mabel Blackwood’s death, the entire town still seemed wrapped in a strange hush beneath the mountain rain. She’d expected dusty files and floral wallpaper.

Instead, she found a minimalist sanctuary.

A woman in her sixties, dark hair threaded with silver and swept into a lethal twist, looked up from a glass desk.

“You must be Aubrey,” she said, voice warm but efficient. “I’m Frannie. Frances, technically, but nobody calls me that unless I’ve misplaced a filing.”

Aubrey managed a smile. “Aubrey Langford. For the reading.”

“Ms. Harper is finishing a call. Can I get you coffee? Tea?” Frannie paused, eyes twinkling. “The book club is already in there. Lord help us all.”

“The book club?” Aubrey asked.

Through the glass doors of the conference room, three women sat in a row like colorful, judgmental birds. Pearls. Bright spring florals. Lace-trimmed tissues.

“Mabel’s inner circle,” Frannie whispered. “Mary Lou Jenkins, Helen Bishop, and June Wheeler. They meet every Wednesday to drink too much Chardonnay and dismantle the reputations of everyone in Jackson County.”

As if on cue, a sob erupted from the room.