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Aweek of living in the guesthouse passes slowly, with little development from my PI.
He made the trek from New York City, where his highly discreet firm is located, four days ago to check out the damage on my father’s house. Walter took some fingerprints, samples from the wood, the paint the intruder used, and swept some things off the floor to analyze in a lab he works with. He took statements from Patrick and me, though we were both asleep and didn’t have much to go on.
Since the Ashton property and my father’s house are both located on roads with no traffic cams, he was unable to find any cars that had driven down to our land that late at night. Liam’s security cams were up and running, and Walter scoured them, but the person must have known what to look for. They were never detected on them and must have come from the woods behind my father’s house, where there are no cameras.
Patrick filled him in on the inner workings—or as much as he knew—of the Hope Crest police, and I told him about my father’s history with the town and the rat incident in high school.
Other than that, there isn’t much else. Liam put more security cameras around the property and at the entrance to the guesthouse. Patrick insists on accompanying me anywhere, and Leona made excuses for me to help at the restaurant so I am all within their sight.
As much as I love spending time with them all, and especially Patrick, I feel like a prisoner in my own life. It feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something terrible to happen once again.
“You’re doing it again.” Patrick comes up behind me, rubbing my shoulders as I snap out of the daze I was in.
I’m sitting with my knees tucked into the couch, my chin resting on the back of it, as I look out the wide bay window in the guesthouse living room.
“Sorry,” I murmur, trying to stop thinking about it all.
“I hate coming in here to see you so lost in this. I know, I know. We need to find who did that, you have no idea how much I want that. But I hate that it means you can’t do what you want to. That you can’t beyou.”
The weight of him sitting beside me has my body tipping into his chest, and I lean over to rest my head against his shoulder. “It’s not like I want to strut down a red carpet or parade around Newton Street. But this feeling that someone is watching my every move, waiting to strike … it has me feeling like a captive in my own life.”
His lips on my forehead ease some of the sorrow and anxiety, and I wish so dearly that his touch could be the medicine to make me forget any of it.
“Let’s go out.”
It’s not the reaction I’m expecting and has me pulling back to look into his eyes. “What?”
“You’ve been cooped up, trapped under the supervision of my family and me, and I can see it’s weighing on you. You said yourself that you’re more of a target here than outside of the property, and it’s been a week since anything has happened. Let me take you out. Maybe for a drink, for a bite to eat. I feel like I haven’t given you dates at all, not that this would qualify as romantic. But let’s go out and live, even if just for a few hours.”
“It’s too risky.” I pout, but I am scared to expose myself that much.
Patrick shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s a risk being here, too. It’s a risk anywhere. Until this motherfucker is caught and put away, it’s a risk. What’s not okay is you retreating into yourself. I love you, I hate seeing you upset, and I feel helpless. Let me do this for you.”
I digest his words, weighing all the possible outcomes this night could bring. Is it stupid to go out and put a target on my back? Anyone could be watching us.
But they also might be doing that right now. And Patrick is right, I’m becoming a shell of myself. Each day, I grow more anxious, more worried, and more upset.
“Okay. But does that mean I have to get out of pajamas?” I lean in to let him take my lips, the kiss sweet and reaffirming.
I do change, but only into comfortable jeans and a sweater that allows me not to put on a real bra. The truck is freezing as Patrick and I hold our gloved hands over the center console and he winds us toward town. Hope Crest isn’t as much of a tourist attraction in the summer. The locals are the only ones at the bars now that the river has begun to freeze on its banks during low-temperature nights. Winter seems to have come early this year, but I almost welcome it. I’ve missed living somewhere with seasons.
The sign for the Laura Inn glows brightly in the faux lamp-lit downtown street, and the windows boast the roaring flames from the huge brick fireplaces signature to the bar. Patrick’s glove is laced in mine as we walk briskly down the street, the cold air a balm to my soul.
Stepping inside brings a waft of ale and french fries to my nose, and I’m instantly a little calmer. Sit me at a table with a salty basket of those, and my nerves will stop rattling real quick.
“You want a drink?” Patrick asks as he helps me shrug out of my coat.
“Yes, please. A glass of red, whatever they recommend.”
“Hey, guys.” Warren walks up, holding a pint glass of an amber liquid.
“Hey.” I lean over for a hug.
He’s the only member of the Ashton clan who gets the position I’m in as an accepted inner circle attendee but still an outsider. I feel a kindred spirit whenever he’s around, but I do wonder about how exactly he feels about Alana. The rest of the family must be blind if they don’t see the way he looks at her, and I’ve only been hanging around for a week.
“Hey, man. Going to get our drinks, can you take Cassandra to whatever table you claimed?”
“Sure thing. I got the couches by the fire tonight, figured it’d be a little removed once the local crowd fills in.” Warren tilts his head to the far side of the room.
