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Van Gogh’s a big, fuzzy grey thing missing the tips of both ears, chewed off in these ragged stumps that make him look charmingly grouchy. He and Mozart look like they’d rather eat dirt than be squished together like that, but neither can resist the sunny little girl fussing over them.
Guess my son can’t, either.
I page through a few more photos, lingering on Eli’s eye for lighting and detail—only to stop as the scene changes.
The Nest.
And me, coming out of the back room, looking every bit like the disgruntled beast I try to pretend I’m not.
Hell.
I hadn’t even realized he was aiming that thing at me. Probably because the entire time my eyes were on Fliss, watching her get back to work with this look on my face that leaves me flummoxed.
It’s an expression I don’t recognize.
The soft, thoughtful smile hanging on my face.
The way I’m watching her like she’s the only thing in the world deserving my attention.
How does she do it? How does she split me open without even trying?
I can’t be this—I don’t even know. Pictures don’t lie.
They’re worth a thousand words, or so the saying goes.
The shots my boy snuck of his old man are definitely worth something.
All these feelings churned up inside me like a bad-tempered volcano are there, plastered on my face, showing me a thousand truths I can’t deny. I can’t pretend they’re not there when I can see what Felicity damn Randall does to me.
She pulls on my darkness, my light, my everything, strumming me like an overgrown guitar.
And I’m starting to wonder what would happen if I gave in and tried making her sing.
If I started to pull back, if I strummed the pain out of her, leaving nothing but this beautiful melody about the girl from the coffee shop and the life she deserves.
What if I found the right spot deep in her blue-violet soul and struck gold?
13
Heart of Gold (Felicity)
Ever felt like you were going to explode?
That’s been me for the past few days.
I know. I know we’re just faking it, playing pretend, giving people something to focus on so we don’t seem suspicious running around together all the time, getting up to all kinds of weird stuff.
But suddenly everything Alaska does has meaning.
Everything he says, every glance and braising touch of his calloused hand to mine.
For the hundredth time, I know it’s not real, up in my head.
Too bad the rest of me won’t get the memo. Seems my heart just can’t comprehend a ruse.
God.
I’m a nervous wreck as I close up The Nest a little early tonight, this time for different reasons from the last time I was left shaking in my own café.
I mean, part of it’s the fact that we’re going out for “intel” tonight—and yes, I love how Alaska uses military-speak for my predicament.
Tonight’s the night we’re talking to Flynn Bitters. We’ll see if he can shed some light on this thing with Dad and the gold.
But a far bigger part of it’s knowing Alaska’s on his way to pick me up.
So maybe I drop the roll of quarters I’m holding in a loud thunk that sends my heart racing.
Maybe I knock over a stand of coffee stirrers.
Sigh.
Maybe I almost miss the timer on my latest batch of fresh-roasted beans and come annoyingly close to burning them.
It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.
...I am so not fine.
As the door swings open with a jingle, I squeak, hands clutching the roll of quarters so hard it splits open and goes fountaining all over the place in shimmering silver.
The coins clatter down and miss the open cash register, falling to the bartop, the floor.
Alaska blinks in the doorway, holding up both hands. “Whoa, Fliss, it’s just me. You’re not being robbed.”
I don’t know if I want to laugh or sob.
Another smash-and-grab heist should be what I’m worried about, after all. Paisley’s been too quiet lately, and that’s usually a sign that should make me very concerned, considering what’s at stake.
She’s stayed away for long stretches before, but only because Heart’s Edge became a hotbed of federal agents and special investigators during its other drama.
That grace period is over. The tiger could come flying at my throat any time.
That’s not why I’m a hot mess spilling quarters everywhere, though.
I don’t know how to tell him that he’s the reason I’m so freaking jumpy.
“You okay?” he calls out, ever the gentleman.
“Sorry, and yes, peachy.”
I wish so badly that was true.
Taking the opportunity, I duck down behind the bar, hiding my face while I scrounge up the quarters. It gives me a second to breathe, to collect myself, but I’m still not ready for the shock when I straighten up.
Of course, he’s right there, his burly arms flexed as he leans on the bar. His dark eyes watch me with clear amusement. They catch the light at just the angle that makes them glow like antique lanterns.
