Page 40 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

“Like, no one?”

He shook his head. “You’re the first person I’ve told. Our former floor manager stole company secrets. I have no clue if he decided to do it on his own or if our competitors baited him with cash. Either way, with the setup they have, they’re able to use our formulas to increase their productivity at massively reduced costs. Once they’re up and running, they’ll undercut us so spectacularly our customers will flock to them. Luckily, I started working on a new technology over a year ago, before this shit storm.”

“Because you knew something like this would happen?”

He wished he’d known Gunther Doright would do wrong and stab him in the back. He’d been utterly clueless. “Because I’m always striving to better our business. And I’m close. Unbelievably close, but I messed up a project a few years back, and our board of directors limited the funds for this research. They’re conservative, and the issue wasn’t pressing at the time. So I raised money through investors and got some recent bank loans. But if they get a whiff of my father’s illness and learn our current technology is about to be undercut, they’ll get spooked. They could pull funding. If we lose that and it takes longer to complete our experiments, we’re screwed, and the board will have to cover those losses.”

He explained how much the town relied on them to maintain their living conditions and support their families, how tough it had been keeping the secret, and how helpless he’d felt when his much younger sister had called him last night, frantic with worry. “It’s also why the festival is a bigger deal than usual. There’s one tribute artist I’d very much like to squash, but this could be my father’s last year, and my singing always meant so much to him. So I set myself this deadline, to complete our research by the festival’s final performance, so we could quit lying and my father could attend the show. I can’t cure his cancer or make his treatments less horrific, but I can do this. I can control this one silly thing.”

He wasn’t sure when Clementine had moved in front him, or when he’d dropped his focus to the ground. She pressed two fingers under his chin and lifted his head. “It’s not silly. It’s beautiful.”

“Or I’m acting like a child hoping to impress his father.”

“Beautiful,” she whispered, the same word he’d used when he’d learned she wrote emails to her late father. He liked the feel of her fingers on his face and the fact that he wouldn’t have to lie to her any longer. Still, sharing the burden made him feel both lighter and heavier.

Her fingers drifted off his chin and lowered to her side. “Why tell me these secrets and not a friend?”

It was an excellent question, one he didn’t quite comprehend. All he knew was he’d hated saying goodbye to her Friday night, had despised sleeping in his bed alone. He’d been excited for their run until his sister’s worrying call. He’d begun to feel more comfortable around Clementine, and life was short and some chances were worth taking. “There’s something about you, Clementine. And I can’t date you with lies between us. It’s why I froze when you showed up here.”

Again with that sweet little sound, the hissing of her breath. “Now I’m really overwhelmed.”

“Why?”

She backed away slightly, creating space between them. “I’m only here a short while.”

“I know.”

“And there’s the judging.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“It was supposed to be a non-date kiss.” Panic was written all over her beautiful face, her freckles bright on her flushed skin.

He wanted her face flushed for different reasons. “It never was and you know it. So I’ll ask what I should have asked that night. Will you go on a date with me? A proper one.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

She curled her hands into fists and pressed her lips together. She marched past him, aiming for the door. To leave? Bail again? She was as skittish as a leopard gecko.

“Clementine.”

She stopped and slumped forward. She shook her head slightly, then turned, defiance in her cinnamon eyes. “There are things I haven’t told you, things I haven’t been honest about.”

“What things?”

“Scary things. Bad things. Things you won’t like.”

He’d assumed as much, based on her behavior. Her lie about her name and avoidance of work topics were troubling, her difficult childhood hinting at trauma. Maybe she’d been treated as poorly as his reptiles, taunted, ignored, abused.

“Tell me,” he said softly.

“I can’t.”

“Then tell me this—do you like me?”

Her face crumpled. “So much.”