Page 9 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

Her face darkens. “I didn’t think it was possible to hate someone as much as I hate him.”

I grunt the affirmative and feel a twinge of guilt for the happy memories that have weaseled into my mind as of late. But yeah. That stupid book of his isn’t helping. It wasn’t enough that our father’s criminal activities ripped us away from Windfall. He had to go and write a tell-all biography, chronicling his cartel exploits and working with the FBI, who gave him immunity and witness protection in exchange for his testimony. He’ll probably make it sound like he orchestrated the ruse to help authorities bring justice to the world.

All the more reason not to touch the principal of my investments. His grubby fingerprints are all over that cash.

“Do you have any single friends?” I ask Delilah, focusing on why I invaded her kitchen.

She cocks her head, searching my face. “Yeah, actually. A couple women in my knitting group.”

“Would you do me the kindness of setting me up?”

Instead of replying with an easy yes, she dips her knife into a huge jug of mayo and slathers some on a thick slice of delicious-looking grain bread. “One of the women, Sloan, is probably a good match. Moved here a few years ago. She’s into hiking and biking.”

“Great. Sounds perfect. So, just…you know. Do it up. Give her my number. Or give me hers. Whatever works in today’s world of dating.”

What isn’t working is that I can’t keep from glancing at the swinging doors—a magnetic pull to look for Maggie, even though I don’t have X-ray vision and can’t see through drywall and Delilah’s barista bouncers. I snap my focus back to Delilah, whose expression is worryingly smug.

“Sloan’s sweet,” she says, “but she’s on the quiet side.”

“Quiet is fine. I like quiet.” I glance at the wall clock, trying to move Delilah along. How hard is it to set someone up on a date?

“She doesn’t sass people.”

“Even better.”

“And she doesn’t have red hair.” She bats her lashes, as though the picture of innocence.

Even though we’re not blood related, she’s as meddlesome as my brothers. “Last I checked, the redhead you’re referring to is in a relationship, and I’m not into swinging or cheating. Sloan sounds nice. Absolutely perfect. I’d appreciate it if you’d hook us up.”

I nod once, sharp and final. Delilah’s blue eyes twinkle in a concerning way, but whatever. She’s a means to an end. One where I finally move forward with my life. Maggie has decreed our history banished. According to her, it never happened. As of this moment, I barely know Maggie Edelstein exists.

chapter three

It’s impossible to pretend Maggie Edelstein doesn’t exist when she’s everywhere. I just walked into the Barrel House and—surprise, surprise—there’s Maggie, in a booth toward the back, talking with someone over beers. Probably her limp handshake of a boyfriend.

Before she notices me, I swivel and push back out of the entrance, growling at the sky.

Windfall’s minuscule size isn’t news. The slower pace and friendliness of this small town are some of the reasons I returned here. Unfortunately, flying under the radar is tough when you live in a snow globe. It’s even worse when you’re hoping for a modicum of privacy.

Tonight is my date with Sloan. The Barrel House is one of the new businesses to pop up in Windfall during my eleven-year hiatus. Based on my reconnaissance, I’ve heard that the Barrel’s the go-to spot for casual drinks. They host trivia nights and movie nights and hit-the-dance-floor nights on Saturdays. Twice a month, they have a Pride Night that supposedly blows the roof off the place. The bar is away from the main square, near a string of art galleries and my former place of employment, the Smash Shack. It sounded like the perfect first-date spot, especially on a quieter Tuesday evening. I got here early to get settled and make sure Sloan didn’t have an uncomfortable wait for me.

Alas, Maggie Edelstein.

I pace a tight line outside, debating texting Sloan and canceling. Having a first date is nerve-racking enough. Having a first date while Maggie’s in plain view has trouble written all over it. I search the lamppost-lit parking area, looking for a sign, any hint of how to manage this curve ball. The fall leaves blowing across the pavement give me nothing.

My attention veers to a man standing beside his Volvo, helping a young boy out of the back. They hold hands, wait to cross the street, then head for the Smash Shack.

A sharp pang hits me.

My dad and I used to do food runs together for the family, anything to alleviate cooking for Mom. Along with a defunct crafting gene, Mom hates cooking. Cal helped on occasion. Otherwise, it was grilled meat and some form of potato or frozen pasta dishes. Easy and filling enough for her five hungry boys. Dad’s contribution was Friday night takeout, and I was his wingman. Smash Shack for burgers. The Curly Tail for ribs and barbeque.

We’d drive to our destination, and he’d let me choose the music, my ever-changing interests keeping things fun—rocker, country, rap, acoustic jams. Dad would pretend to sing along, not caring that he was messing up the lyrics. Then he’d knock my shoulder and say something stupid like, “I should’ve done Broadway.”

I snap my focus to a weed pushing up through the asphalt and rub my sternum. I didn’t expect memories of him to bombard me like this. I mean, yeah. Moving back to Windfall was bound to unearth a mess of feelings. There’s no emerging unscathed from my sordid history, but I haven’t seen or spoken with my father in a decade. Six months into WITSEC, he left us. Never got in touch again, and everyone was relieved. I was relieved. Now, for some reason, good memories are creeping back, and this fondness is throwing me for a loop—how much I suddenly miss this asshole who ruined our lives.

An asshole who thought it was a swell idea to write a tell-all book.

Jaw painfully clenched, I blow out a rough breath. There’s no changing the past. My father did what he did. Our lives are what they are. Maggie is whoever the heck Maggie is on any given day, and I need to banish both of them from my thoughts.