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Henry nods and shovels the wet sand into Caleb’s open hands, which promptly seeps straight through to his pants. And to my absolute shock, Caleb laughs. A real laugh—the kind you can feel in your chest, the kind that would make you smile even if you didn’t have a clue what it was about.
That dimple of his hits every bit as hard as it did thirteen years ago.
He rises, brushing off his pants. “Just do your best tomorrow,” he says abruptly, and he’s already walking away before I’ve thought of a reply.
Who are you, Caleb Lowell? What happened to the boy you once were?
Because it sort of seems like one of us should be trying to find him.
10
LUCIE
The next morning, I don the same green dress I wore for my presentation to the executive committee. It’s the most businesslike thing I own, but when I walk into Caleb’s office, he frowns, his eyes catching on the dress for a moment too long. I kind of assumed no one would notice I’m repeating an outfit so soon.
I run my sweating palms down my sides. “I wanted to see when we’re leaving.”
His brow furrows. “For the interview?”
I grin. “No. Coachella.”
“Look who’s suddenly a smart-ass.”
“To be fair,” I counter, “I was always kind of a smart-ass. You just didn’t listen to me before.”
His mouth curves, but his gaze is already back on his laptop. “Still not listening, actually. Eleven thirty, but let’s plan to drive separately.”
It seems silly to take two cars, but what can I say?I’m crazy nervous about this interview and I inexplicably find your presence comforting?
Ninety minutes later, Caleb reaches the front doors just as I do and comes to a sudden stop. “Are you okay?”
“I’m a little nervous,” I reply, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “Careful, though. You almost sounded worried about an employee there.”
“I figured it was better than saying, ‘Don’t make us look like assholes today.’”
I give him a weak wave. “I guess I’ll see you there.”
He regards me, quietly wrestling with something. “Ride with me. I can’t have you passing out at the wheel.”
“Because I might die or because I might not be able to provide you with some good PR?”
“The PR, obviously,” he says. “Your death would save the company money.”
I laugh and my nerves begin to dissipate. I follow him to his truck, where he’s already opening the passenger door and throwing tools and grout in the back. “Sorry about the mess,” he says. “I’m supposedly renovating the lake house, if I ever get the time.”
It seems ambitious for a guy who already works way too much and has the money to hire someone. And I can’t imagine his wife feels like waiting for a renovation that will take place in Caleb’s nonexistent downtime.
Don’t ask about his wife, Lucie. Don’t—
“Are you hiding her in the attic?” I blurt as he climbs into the car.
The seat belt he’s holding is suspended in mid-air. “What?”
“Your wife.”
His jaw shifts. He clicks the seat belt and turns on the engine. “No. She’s just…away for a while.”
“That sounds like exactly the kind of shady thing a guy would say if his wife was imprisoned in the attic or buried in the yard.”
