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Prologue
Finn
Tenyearsago
My stomach flips seeing her dark brown hair whip around her face in the wind. I turn up the volume on the staticky radio playing old school country to cover the sound of the open window. And my beating heart.
My fingers tap on the worn leather of the old steering wheel fighting the urge to reach out and touch hers. The cab of the truck is dark, the headlights lighting up the country road ahead of us. Ranch fence lines zoom past in the sideview, the occasional yellow sign warning of deer crossings.
Effie rolls down her window, and the fresh smell of pine rushes in.1
It jumps like a skipping stone in my chest. Sharp, staccato hops that leave you anxious and waiting for the drop.
Effie and I had known each other for years. We’re only a couple years apart, and our fathers run in the same circles. Those circles being the rich and dirty criminal underworld. But it wasn’t until we graduated high school a few years ago that we really started spending time together as more than two crime bosses’ kids. I had my brothers of course, but there was something freeing about spending time with another person who knew what it was like to wake up in the middle of the night to gunshots and eat breakfast to the smell of bleach the next morning.
She understood that I didn’t break the cashier’s nose because I wanted to, but because he disrespected me, and as a Fox, I can’t let that happen without consequences. I glance down at my bruised knuckles wrapped around the wheel now and can almost feel the sting of the ice she held on them after as she cursed our fathers and their damn egos.
As if reading my mind she turns to me from the passenger seat, “How’s your hand feeling?”
I flex my swollen fingers and take my eyes off the two lane road just long enough to meet hers. We’re passing one of the few streetlights and the rusty glow makes her mahogany eyes shimmer like amber. My throat tightens. “Fine.”
I may be imagining it, but I think I see her frown slightly at my short answer. It’s not fine. My knuckles feel like they were run over by a steam roller. But it’s not like I’m gonna say that out loud.
I spot a sign for Bartlett Farms. “We’re almost there.”
Bartlett Farms is a small, family-run berry farm. They have fields of strawberries and long hedges of blueberries and some other stuff I can’t remember. The large, white farm house that we see as we pull into the dirt drive has a wraparound porch faintly glowing with old-fashioned gas lamps. The couple who lives here now is in their seventies and the white paint is chipping and curling off the wood siding, but the porch steps are always swept clean, and the flower baskets neatly pruned.
The Bartletts are proud and honest people, which is probably why my father chose them. They don’t know I’m coming tonight—no one does—so when the truck crawls past the house to the back, a light flicks on upstairs. They must recognize my truck, and the light turns off within a few seconds.
“This looks more like a place you’d take a girl to murder her, not on a date,” Effie muses as she looks up at the dilapidated barn we’ve parked in front of. I think she says something else, but I can’t hear over the blood thumping in my ears.
A date? Fuck.
I mean, I’m not complaining. I’ve had a thing for her since we were seven fucking years old. Back then of course, I just thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen and wanted to hold her hand. But now, I can’t deny the number of times I’ve jacked off in the shower to the thought of her soft skin, graceful curves, and bone-warming smile.
I never considered she might think of me the same way.
And that thought makes anxiety roil in my stomach.
Because I want it to be true. I want it more than anything I can ever remember wanting in my life.
I lead us through the overgrown grass behind the barn to the woods. There’s enough moonlight filtering through the leaves to guide our feet. Still, Effie’s foot snags on a root and she flies forward. Instinctively, I reach out and grab her around the waist before she breaks her fucking neck.
Her body is warm and soft, and I immediately notice how her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Her pretty pink lips part and I am frozen to the spot as she looks up at me through her lashes.
I could lean down and kiss her right now. I could. But I don’t. Instead I drop my arm and continue ahead, “Just a bit further.”
The rest of the way, Effie walks behind me instead of at my side so she can follow in my exact steps. We arrive at the lake without any other near-accidents. The trees part, and the foliage thins from rooty brush to thin, wiry weeds. The silvery water ripples faintly with the night air feathering above it.
Effie eyes the wooden dock stretched out in front of us skeptically, “That thing looks one gust of wind from falling down.”
“It will be worth it.” I swallow down the rising lump of nerves in my throat and hold out my hand. “Promise.” She sets her hand in mine and butterflies erupt in my stomach.Fuck.
We walk out to the end of the dock. It does creak ominously with our steps, and it would be my fucking luck if this old dock chooses tonight to crumble. “Look down,” I tell her.
I don’t need to look. I already know what’s down there. Instead, I watch her. Her brows rise and a sweet smile tugs on her lips. “That’s beautiful,” she says, eyes still taking in the web of water lilies floating on top of the water.
Big white blooms dot the water, the moonlight making them look ethereal, especially with cricket songs humming in the air and the gentle breeze. Effie spins and catches me staring. I want to look away, pretend I wasn’t memorizing every feature and line of her face. But she steps closer, so close our chests almost touch.
