Page 9 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

“I’m feeling a little wild today. Let’s go with the strawberry.”

“Strawberry, it is.”

As Imelda left, Clementine was accosted by another familiar face: Jasmine Jones. Unfamiliar panic curled its fist around her lungs. The town’s Elvis coordinator approached until the only Whichway-ian who knew her alias was sharing oxygen with the only Whichway-ian who knew her real name. Could this morning derail any faster?

Don’t call me Samantha. Don’t call me Samantha.

At least, not until she’d untangled this mess.

Jasmine eyed Clementine’s breakfast. “I see you’ve made friends with Whatnot’s famed apple turnovers. One bite, and you’ll be hooked.”

One more minute in this diner and she’d officially blow her cover. “So I’ve heard.”

Clementine clamped her mouth shut and prayed Jasmine would move along. The quaintness of this small town was feeling more straightjacket than comfy coat.

Jasmine strolled to a nearby booth, thank God, but swiveled back. “Tell your father to fly home for the festival, Jack. It won’t be the same without him. And be nice to Samantha. We’d like her to come back.”

If this scene were a GIF, Clementine’s turnover would detonate, showering her in apple and pastry, and a whole lotta trouble.

“Samantha?” Jack’s brow crinkled.

It was a sexy look on him, but he wasn’t allowed to be sexy. Not in this town, or on that seat. Anywhere near her. Especially when he was likely an asshole, his shyness yesterday probably a total act. She needed to leave and regroup, find her way in Whichway. If Maxwell walked in now, this stormy blip would torpedo into a natural disaster. “I think I’ll take my pastry to go.”

He opened his mouth and closed it. He fiddled with his cufflink. “Can I have a name explanation?”

She caught Imelda’s attention and asked for a check and take-out bag, while mulling over her options. Only one lie made sense. “What did you expect? That I share my name with a stranger in the middle of nowhere? Any woman would have more sense than that.”

He released his cufflink, but wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “And how do you know Jasmine?”

“I’m a judge for the Elvis festival.”

He stared at Clementine’s profile.

She stared at Imelda, willing that woman to work like the wind. It was worse than watching sloths race.

“You’re a judge?” he asked slowly.

“I’m a judge,” she repeated. Again. Was he hard of hearing?

“And your name is Samantha.”

Maybe he’d been dropped on his head as a child, and she hated that name on his lips. Yesterday, when he’d whispered Clementine, she’d pictured forests and roots and blooming flowers, not lone trees and bruised grasses.

When Imelda finally handed over her check, Clementine paid and gathered her things, attempting to ignore Jack, whose delivered strawberry turnover and coffee sat untouched. His steadfast focus hadn’t swayed from her, as long as she didn’t seek direct eye contact, and she was doing it again, leaving him in her review mirror as quickly as possible. Creating more suspicion.

She’d meet Maxwell another way. On his morning run, maybe. She would avoid blue-eyed, large-handed Jack. Ensure their paths never crossed. But two steps away, he said, “Clementine.”

She turned. A knee-jerk reaction. Goddamn him.

He crossed his arms awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “To be fair, Jack isn’t my given name, either.”

The Elvis clock seemed to still. Her lungs backfired worse than Jack’s Jaguar. She knew his name before he said it, before those two syllables passed his lips. His appearance in the Whatnot Diner at his predicted time should have clued her in, the “usual” turnover, strawberry when frisky, a blaring sign.

Dread corkscrewed through her, twisting far and deep.

She knew his name. That didn’t limit her shock when he said, “My name’s Maxwell David the Third, but my friends call me by my middle name. Jack.”

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