Page 62 of Still Missing You

I close my eyes and scrub a hand over my face.

He was seventeen when that happened. A kid being threatened by an authority figure who held real power over my future and his. Of course he panicked. Of course he tried to fix it the only way he knew how.

Hell, if the roles had been reversed, I might have done the same thing. The thought settles heavily in my chest.

I start walking again, slower this time, still heading toward the inn. By the time the familiar shape of the building is looming over me, the guilt has fully set in. The porch light glows softly against the dark sky, snow piled along the walk that leads to the veranda steps.

I pause at the bottom. Dylan’s probably still at the bar. I left him the truck, so at least he won’t have to walk back in the cold. But the image of him standing in the middle of the bar while I walked away makes my stomach twist.

I shouldn’t have said those things. No wonder he doesn’t trust me.

Or maybe I should have said all of it, but not the way I did. Not as an accusation. The truth is, I’m not really angry about what happened back then.

I’m angry because it still matters. Because despite everything I told myself when we first got here, despite all my careful emotional distancing, I’ve fallen right back into this with him. Hard.

I slip my phone out of my pocket to send him a text, something short to let him know where I am and ask if we could talk, really talk, but it’s dead.

“Shit,” I mutter. I need to charge it.

With an irritated sigh, I push open the front door and step into the warm, quiet hallway. The inn is silent at this hour; the faint creak of old wood and the distant hum of warm air pumping from the vents are the only sounds. Jim was probably in his own room, or maybe out. I didn’t see his truck in the driveway. I assumed Nancy was with their children at her parents’ by now. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the warmth sink into my bones.

I had to charge my phone so I could call Dylan. Apologize. Explain.

We need to talk about what happened back then, and about what’s happening now. Because pretending this is just some temporary arrangement isn’t fooling either of us anymore. I want a future with him.

I start for the stairs, but freeze.

The house feels too quiet.

Someone is sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the cold fireplace in the parlor. The room is dark, and I wouldn’t have noticed him at all if not for the glow from his phone.

For a split second, I tense, remembering the intruder from the other night, but the sensation quickly eases. The man leans back in the chair as if he owns the place, long legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other. Even in the dim light of his phone, I recognize the broad shoulders, the familiar cocky posture.

“About time,” Linc says.

I stare at him, a dozen questions slamming into my brain at once. “What are you doing here?”

Lincoln Dominato, IT expert and a partner in the agency, grins lazily. He pushes to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Seriously,” my pulse picks up. “Why are you here?”

“Please,” Linc gestures vaguely. “You disappear to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, send me footage from a probably dead filmmaker to review, and you didn’t expect one of us to turn up?”

He makes a valid point. Still, I cross my arms, irritation flickering in my chest. “You’re not answering my question.”

Linc’s grin fades slightly.

“Your phone’s been off half the day,” he says. “You were vague in your last message about the film footage, and then the local police department contacts us about a tip you dropped on a guy with a drawer full of illegal bathroom photos.”

I wince. “Yeah, they were pretty gross. So you came to babysit me?”

“I came because things are escalating,” Linc replies. “Colin and I thought you might appreciate backup.”

I lean against the doorframe between the foyer and parlor, exhaustion creeping into my bones.

“So tell me about Dylan Moore. Where is he?” Linc asks casually.

“At the local bar,” I say. The last thing I want is to talk about Dylan and the complicated past we share.