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That’s when it hits me.
Something’s not right outside.
There’s a shadow looming around the tree line past my fence that wasn’t there before. The shape blends into the leaves and earthy bark.
A man.
A man with a familiar silhouette, sunlight gleaming off his sandy-brown hair, face hollow-eyed and sunken as he stares at my house with burning eyes.
Roger?
Holy shit, Roger!
It happens so fast.
My breath chokes off.
My chest caves in.
My fingers clench my phone like a brick, right before I drop it with a clatter.
Without thinking, I sprint through the back door out of the kitchen. The screen bounces with a wild squeal as I fling it open, heart racing, and tumble out onto the deck.
There’s no one there.
No one standing in the trees at all.
No one but me and Culver Jacobin, who jerks his head up with a yelp of surprise, dropping the wire clippers he’d been holding.
“Uh.” He stares at me, wide-eyed and flustered. “Ma’am, everything all right?”
“There was a...” I don’t finish, pointing limply at the fence instead. “I think there was a man in the trees. Did you see him?”
“No, ma’am.” Culver shakes his head slowly, then turns his head, squinting over his shoulder in the direction I’m pointing. “Ain’t seen nobody out here, and I got good eyes.” Then he peers at me. “You feeling okay?”
“Sure,” I whisper weakly, but I’m definitely not.
I’m just frozen, imagining Roger Strunk staring at me in broad daylight.
I swallow hard and back up.
“Sorry for startling you,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m fine.”
Culver’s eyes trail me as I bang the kitchen door shut and press my face into my hands, trying to calm my pulse.
It isn’t helping, and why should it?
Just one day.
One little day of peace is all I want, and I’m not going to get it.
I’m cracking now.
Totally losing it.
But maybe I need dinner with Lucas more than I thought for all the wrong reasons.
I need something when I can’t be alone.
14
Redder Herring (Lucas)
I don’t know what has me so damn fidgety.
The fact that in five minutes, Delilah Clarendon’s going to blow into my house, eat my cooking, take up space in my life—or the fact that she wouldn’t tell me why she didn’t want to be alone.
She was acting real cagey on the phone.
Talking low like she didn’t want to be overheard. And when I asked her if someone was there with her?
She just mumbled something back without a real answer.
Damn.
There I was, fixing to go tearing out there, my head rattling with all these dark possibilities.
Montero Arrendell holding her at gunpoint, forcing her to act like nothing was wrong, or maybe his snot-nosed son. But she didn’t sound like she was lying, exactly.
What the hell?
I had to believe her.
Trust her.
And hope she’ll actually show up tonight.
Also, I’ve never cooked to impress a girl before.
I’m no fancy chef. I’m good with boiling some pasta and making a little homemade Bolognese sauce, or throwing a roast in the oven with some chopped up potatoes soaked in a marinade together.
Better than living on sandwiches and takeout like other bachelors I know, or relying on your grandparents to cook for a little girl like certain other bachelors I know. Captain Grant would be lost without some help.
Tonight, I’ve gone all-out.
Panko-crusted crab cakes dusted with seasoning.
Seared asparagus tips in a thick sauce of caramelized cooking wine with sliced mushrooms and almond slivers.
A cheddar pasta bake with bacon and little garlic bread crumbles crusted on top.
For dessert, we’ve got hand-rolled cinnamon nut bread dots with dipping sauces—cream, icing, caramel, strawberry.
I’m standing over the stove, watching a YouTube video on my phone and reading the captions about how long to simmer the wine sauce on low so it thickens just right without going sour when my doorbell rings.
I check the temperature on the stove, then whip my apron off and drape it over the back of a chair before speeding to the door.
Yep, I’ve got it bad, huh?
When I open the door and see Miss Delilah standing there, I have my answer.
She’s not just pretty as a picture.
She is the whole damn picture, simply gorgeous in a dark-grey thigh-skimming pleated skirt, an oversized sweater in light green on top. It’s almost see-through over a pale strappy camisole. Stylish black leather ankle boots with scrunched-up white socks and pale-green trim that matches her sweater complete the look.
The girl knows how to look like sex on a stick without even trying.
Hell, she doesn’t need to try hard when she carries herself with the confidence to pull off wearing any damn thing she pleases.
Her hair’s half up in a knot, half down, and it shimmers over her shoulders in black ripples. She raises the bottle of wine in her left hand and a six-pack of bottled stout hanging from the other.
“I didn’t know what would fit better,” she says with that little grin that makes her eyes glitter and my heart pound like a freight train. “So I brought both.”
