Page 16 of The Story Between Us

“It is professional.”

“Is it?”

Livvie opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “If Richard finds out this is personal, he’ll pull me off the assignment. Or use it against me. He’ll say I can’t be objective. He’ll⁠—”

“Okay, okay.” Meg held up a hand. “So you don’t tell him. You go as the concerned junior agent, which you are. Nate Rivers…you’re just doing your job.”

“Right.” Livvie swallowed. “Just doing my job.”

Oh, she could lie with the best of them, at least to herself. She wasn’t going to Minnesota to do her job. She was going to face a man she’d never stopped thinking about, a ghost she’d never properly grieved, and a chapter of her life she’d never had the courage to close.

And if Nate figured out she hadn’t told her boss the truth—that she’d used their history to get this assignment, even if she hadn’t meant to—he’d never trust her.

He’d think she was using him.

Maybe she was.

Livvie pressed Call on Aunt Lila’s number and tried very hard not to think about how many ways this could go wrong.

Nate was wearing the same sweatshirt he’d slept in, which was the same sweatshirt he’d worn yesterday, which—let’s be honest—was the same sweatshirt he’d worn most days since he’d stopped keeping track. The dogs didn’t judge. The mirror did, which was why he’d stopped looking.

But the dog-food bag was empty, and even he wasn’t far enough gone to let Huck and Finn starve. So here he was, sitting in his truck in the driveway, engine off, trying to remember how to be a person in public.

The September morning had that crisp edge to it—not quite cold, but with the slightest edge of autumn brisk in the wind. A warning shot across the bow of summer. The maples along the shore were just starting to turn, touches of gold and rust bleeding into the green like someone had been experimenting with watercolors.

Speaking of watercolors…

He specifically, deliberately, with great concentration, did not look at Lila’s cottage. The warm glow coming from her studio window. The thin curl of smoke from her chimney. The silhouette he could see if he glanced sideways—and he wasn’t glancing—of a woman at an easel, creating things like it was possible to just do that.

She was probably working on a new book. She’d probably already made more beautiful, meaningful things this morning than he’d made in three years.

The steering wheel creaked under his grip.

“Okay,” he said out loud, which was a great sign of mental stability. Talking to yourself in an empty truck. Very normal. Very healthy. “Okay. It’s groceries. One task. In and out.”

Huck watched him from the porch, head tilted, probably wondering why Nate had been sitting there for ten minutes. Finn had given up and was chasing a squirrel around the side of the house. At least one of them had their priorities straight.

Nate turned the key. The engine coughed like it was personally offended by the request, then grudgingly rumbled to life.

Twenty-two steps from the truck to the store entrance. He’d counted once.

He was fine. This was fine. Everything was fine.

He pulled out of the driveway before he could talk himself out of it.

The drive into town took ten minutes, which meant ten minutes of landmarks he’d rather not see. But he took the long way around, even though it added three minutes. Three minutes of not driving past the bench where Emma used to sit with her hot chocolate. Worth it.

The library slid past on his left—red brick, white columns, the cheerful banner out front announcing something about the Flannel Festival that he refused to read. Emma had run story hour there for five years. Kids called her the Story Lady. Sometimes he still heard her voice doing character accents, the ridiculous ones that made the children shriek with laughter.

He gripped the wheel tighter.

The town square was a disaster of activity. Workers on ladders, stringing lights between the lampposts. A banner hung over Main Street: MAPLE LAKE FLANNEL FESTIVAL – CELEBRATING 47 YEARS! Someone unloaded pumpkins from a flatbed truck to decorate the sidewalks. The whole town, gearing up to celebrate community and togetherness and all the things he’d opted out of.

Maple Reads came next, the bookstore window displaying a pyramid of autumn-themed novels. Cozy mysteries and spiced-latte romances, and probably, somewhere in there, the Thornwood Chronicles. He didn’t slow down to check. He already knew her “Staff Pick” card was still on the shelf, her handwriting frozen in time: “My brother wrote this, and it’s actually good. Don’t tell him I said that.”

He didn’t know why she always said that—as if she wasn’t the author of every brilliant idea.

Hagen’s General Store appeared on his right like a pop quiz he’d forgotten to study for. He pulled into the gravel lot, found a spot near the back—maximum distance from the entrance, minimum visibility—and cut the engine.