Page 78 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

He reached for his set from the cup holder, but she stilled his hand and tilted his face toward her. The dark circles under his eyes were partly due to their lack of sleep, but she wasn’t the only cause. With all they’d discussed, she hadn’t asked about his family, his challenging job. So many burdens. “How’s your dad?”

He swallowed hard. “No better, but no worse. He’s holding strong.”

“And the business? The tech stuff you’re working on?”

“Fine. Everything will be fine.” The same platitudes he’d offered his mother. False bravado. He searched her face, then deflated slightly. “Not fine, actually. I hit a speedbump yesterday morning. I thought we were going to have a breakthrough, but it might be a setback.”

“I’d ask for details, but I wouldn’t be much help.”

“Knowing I’m coming home to you is a help.” Still, a muscle in his jaw bunched.

“Who can you talk to about work?”

His next pause lasted longer. “I discuss the project with my team, but they don’t understand the time constraints and pressure, the repercussions if we fail. I don’t want to add extra worry to my family, and I was sure I’d have this done by the festival so I could announce the new technology and stop lying about my father. I was so sure it would be settled.”

His frustration seemed to sit heavy on his slumping shoulders. She was no engineer, had no clue how to solve this for him, but his openness? Sharing the concerns he often hid? It meant everything. “You still have a few more days.”

“It’s not even about that anymore. Don’t get me wrong—I want nothing more than to have my father out and enjoying the show, so he can watch me one last time, if that’s what this is for him. But there’s more at stake.”

More employees could be fired. Marco’s good news flashed through her mind, Jack’s slipping mood. “What does Marco do for you?”

He blinked a few times, then blew out a rough breath. “He runs our charities. Researches where to spend the money, does fundraising and disperses funds.”

Non-essential work. Her heart clenched. “He’s next on the pink-slip list, isn’t he?”

Jack twisted his hands around the steering wheel. “He should have been on the last round, but I couldn’t do it. I mean, Jesus—he just had twins. He needs this job. How can I look my best friend in the face and ruin his life?”

She’d heard enough to know how close he was with Marco. The pressure must be killing him. Even still, he’d given her last night and this morning, was determined to work her into his hectic world. “Maybe I should go back to New York. Spend a few weeks there to get organized before returning. Give you time to focus.”

He released the steering wheel and laced their fingers together. “Not having you around the past three days was painful and distracting. After last night, it’ll be worse. This is so fresh. Too fresh.” He winced slightly. “I want more time together before you go back.”

Tension rolled off him, more than seemed right. He couldn’t seriously believe she’d change her mind now, could he? “You’re worried I won’t come back.”

“Of course.”

His honesty bowled her over, but the man was a fool. A sentimental, perfect fool. She undid her seatbelt and crawled toward him, wedging herself sideways onto his lap. “But no one else does that thing you do with your tongue.”

He smiled, thank God, and palmed her bottom. “No one else has cinnamon eyes quite like yours. Or calms me like you do,” he said more quietly.

If she weren’t pinned between his lap and the steering wheel, she’d probably float away. “Guess I better stay, then. For the calming factor. And to cheer for you when you perform and boo that Alistair character.”

He glowered. “Alistair is the worst.”

This, however, was the best: feeling part of Team Jack. He had confided in her, sharing his worries, just as she had with him.

He dropped her off and she drove her car to her motel, her inner giggly teen resurfacing as she neared. Her fingers twitched, eager to pull out her laptop and email her father. She pushed inside her room quickly and picked up her briefcase, then jerked to a stop. There was a thread on the floor, the thin string she’d placed over the zipper, one of her meticulous fail-safes, to catch an intruder.

The thread falling would mean someone had touched her bag, but she didn’t know if it had fallen off before or after she’d picked her bag up. She’d been too distracted to notice.

She braced her legs and studied the room. The maroon comforter was still piled on the carpet. The bed was unmade. The bible was still ninety degrees with the nightstand edge. The Do Not Disturb sign had been hung on her plywood door. Nothing was amiss and no one should have been in here, but she went through everything anyway. The bathroom. Her drawers. Her suitcase. All was well, but paranoia prickled like it had before Jack’s performance and when he’d questioned the moved electrical cord. Three times now.

Still, nothing else had been touched. The thread had probably been hanging over the zipper, as she’d left it, and she’d knocked it off when picking up the bag.

Just to be safe, she texted Lucien as planned.

Clementine: Anyone in town I should know about?

She watched her phone and bounced her knee until his reply came through.