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“Borneo?” Cora laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course.” Then she raises her fingers to her lips. Is she thinking of the kiss we just shared? Or the one we had all those years ago? She looked so sad and so beautiful that night, too.
She nods, as if making a calculation. “Okay. Well. I better go.” Then she abruptly turns on her heel and begins walking down the dark side street.
I’m so shocked that for a moment I just stand there. Then I come to my senses and jog after her. “Cora, wait. Let me walk you.”
“I’m fine. But thanks for the shirt.”
“I can’t let you walk home alone.”
She throws me a look. “Let me?”
“I mean, I don’t want you to walk home alone.”
“Quince Valley is the safest place on earth,” she declares.
She’s still upset about me not telling her who I was, of course. I get it.
But she doesn’t tell me to get lost, so I walk with her to her apartment building.
She says nothing the whole way, while my mind screams with everything I want to say to her.I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything when you told me… when you handed me your heart back when we were kids.
When she reaches her door, I pause, at the end of the walkway. The door has just clicked shut, and through the glass, I see only a flash of her back as she rounds the corner out of her lobby.
She’s wearing only her shirt again—mine hangs over the door handle.
I go up and grab it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, to her, or Sam—I’m not sure—before walking away.
CHAPTER4
Tristan
“Buddy, I paid you to go inside the building,” I say, working hard not to form my hands into fists.
I’m standing in the door of the office of George Klister, acting CEO of the Rolling Hills resort, sweat making my T-shirt stick to my skin. Irritation burns in my gut. I’m at the door because George has some other asshole in his office. I wonder if he double-booked me on purpose, to show me what hot shit he is.
But I don’t think so. I think it’s the other guy pulling the strings. In the few minutes I’ve been standing here, I’ve learned the hefty gray-haired guy scrolling through his phone—who reeks of too-much cologne—is the mayor of some little town in New York State. I’ve photographed my share of corrupt politicians over the years, and this guy looks like embezzlement on two legs.
“That was never our arrangement,” George says now, looking kind of sweaty as he glances toward the other guy. Yeah, it’s not him.
“We agreed you would take promotional photos of the hotel,” George says, his hands twisted before him. “Including highlighting the world-class spa facilities under development.”
He says that last part like he’s trying to inject logic into the situation.
I try to keep my voice level. “No, we agreed you’d have someone meet me at the rear entrance of the east wing to let me inside to photograph the space. Instead, you had a security guard threaten to escort me off the property. When I’m a paying fuc—” I cut myself off. “When I’m a paying guest.”
George clears his throat, glancing at the guy sitting down again, clearly looking for support.
Normally, I’m smooth in these situations. Getting into inside vantage points is part of why all the major newswires buy my images. “Clamor,” as an editor once said. I get the shots people are too scared to get. Last year, that same editor told me I was either smooth as shit or had a death wish. Then he sent me double what we’d agreed on and told me I wouldn’t even need to pitch him to get photos in his magazine. “I trust you,” he said.
But today, I don’t trust myself with George. I’m on fucking edge.
Because of Cora.
Last night, I didn’t come straight back to the hotel. Being with her like that—kissing her…Jesus, kissing her—wasn’t anywhere near the plan for when I came home for the first time in over a decade. Being here was already doing my head in. But with that on top? I’d ended up driving all over town, passing all the spots that held real estate in my mind. Betsey’s Cafe, where I used to take all the girls I dated for milkshakes, telling myself I needed to fall for them instead of the one I couldn’t have.
The bridge over the Quince, where Sam had dared me to jump into the river at sixteen—then jumped in after me when I did it without question.
My mom’s place, where she and my stepdad Randy had fought drunken battles that had me practically living at Sam’s place all through high school.
