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“I will.” I hear three quick beeps, signaling she hung up. I love that woman, but damn if she doesn't ever say goodbye properly on the phone.
I coast my bike to a stop in front of the closed three-car garage. Muffled music seeps through the house as I shut off my engine. My boots crunch over loose stones as I cross the driveway and climb the three steps to the wraparound porch. Considering it's been left untouched for a year, it's not in bad shape.
The noise is louder here, and I recognize the unmistakable notes of The Pixies. I hesitate in front of the big window next to her door, peering inside. A flicker of movement catches my eye, but I can't see what or who it is past the lacy curtains.
I lift my fist to knock on the door, but it's already ajar. I push it open slowly and peer into the dim foyer.
“Hello?” My voice echoes off of the empty space, save for a small eggplant-colored console underneath an ornate oval mirror. The scent of stale lavender permeates the air and my nose twitches.
No one answers, but I'm not all that surprised. Music blares from the record player in the living room to my right. I keep my footsteps silent, dark amusement prickling the back of my neck at the song.
I enter the living room, and I'm taken aback by the sight before me. The velvet chaise lounge in the picture window, the built-in bookcase along the left wall stuffed with books, and the uncomfortable-looking modern floral-patterned sitting chairs all frame a scene. And a mountain of stuff, loosely circling the room. Stacks of books, piles of trinkets, vases and picture frames.
And in the center is a dark-haired woman bent over. She's wearing a long black skirt and a bright pink cropped tank top. Her cascading hair obscures her face, but I feel a flash of awareness in my body that I've only felt a few times before.
My heart skips a beat like some fucking cliche, and before I can second-guess myself, I take a few strides toward her.
“Hey,” I call out in my friendliest voice, reaching out to get her attention.
My palm rests on her shoulder for the barest second before she stands up and spins around with catlike reflexes and a startled scream.
Pain explodes across my nose, and I fall to my ass with a resounding thud. Stars flash across my vision and the unmistakable warmth of blood sludges over my top lip. I pinch the bridge of my nose to stem the bleeding and look between my fingers at the woman before me.
Straight into a pair of brown eyes so dark and deep that I could trip and drown in them. I had fallen into them.
Once.
Years ago, surrounded by sand and summer breeze. I dove headfirst, utterly captivated by her.
It's her.
The one from the beach.
Mygirl.
Lightbulbs flicker on in rapid succession, or maybe that's just my brain restarting after she rang my bell with . . . “What are you holding?” My voice comes out a raspy laugh.
“Are you—are you laughing?” Her voice hits that certain level of incredulity that has my lips twitching again.
“This is going to be a helluva story to tell our kids one day, baby girl,” I murmur, voice low.
“What?” Her hands hang by her side and she leans toward me, and I get a whiff of something sweet, like sugared figs or caramelized honey. Her gaze flicks between my eyes as she bites the corner of her lip, this little wrinkle forming between her brows. “Shit. Maybe you have a concussion.”
I tip my head back a little further, keeping my gaze on her. “Nah, I'm fine. I've had plenty of concussions in my life, and this ain't it.”
“Are you sure? Maybe I should take you to the hospital?”
“Nah, no hospital, but could I get some paper towel or napkins?” I wink at her.
“Yes, yes, of course. Stay here.” She straightens up and drops the makeshift weapon, leaving me sprawled out in the middle of Mrs. Carter's rug.
All of the things to take me down, who knew it would be a fucking scented candle.
I let my head fall back and chuckle. It's a good thing I'm alone, because absolutely no one would ever let me live this down if they knew.
18
EVANGELINE
