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“But Sadie thinks I put Mads up to it.”
“Yep, and I said that proved she didn’t know either of you… which led to a whole different argument.”
“I can imagine.”
“Then she brought up the same subject she did with you, and I said hell no. The timing was so wrong. That means, yes, she was angrywith me. I should have said that, but since everyone already figured she took off in a snit—and the evidence supported it—I didn’t want to stir up more trouble by saying she’d accused you of luring me out here.”
“Between her fight with me and her fight with you, I don’t think there’s any doubt she tried to leave and take the boat.”
“The question is whether she also set the bombs.”
We stand on the promontory, looking out at the lake. Waves no longer lap at the rocks. They crash with enough force to splash our shoes, and Kit eases me back from the edge.
“One hell of a storm coming,” I say, and the wind whips my words away.
Kit puts his arm around my waist. The half embrace is tentative, unsure of its welcome. When I lean against his shoulder, his arm tightens, and I take a moment to breathe in the smell of the lake, close my eyes, and imagine this is just a storm.
Two years roll away, and I’m standing here watching a storm with Kit’s arm around me. We’ll settle on the rocks, high above the crashing waves, and we’ll break out wine and crackers and cheese, because that’s what normal people do, right? Picnic in a storm? We’ll laugh at that—it’s so us, isn’t it?—and then the sky will open, rain drenching us before we can even pack up the basket, and we’ll only laugh some more. Then I’ll reach for his shirt and pull it up, joking that I’m helping him out of his wet clothes, and soon we’ll be lying in the grass, reveling in each other and in the glory of a summer storm.
Roll back time. Please. I don’t want to be in this moment, in this hellish perversion of a wonderful dream where I get Jayla back and I find peace with Kit and maybe even Sadie.
Sadie…
Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut and steel myself to continue this shitty, shitty conversation. Did my former friend blow up my boats and trapus on this island? Or is my former friend lying dead at the bottom of Lake Superior?
I open my eyes, ready to talk again, and something below catches my eye. I start to crouch, and Kit must think I’m falling—despite being two feet from the edge. He grabs me so fast we nearlydofall.
“There’s something down there,” I say just as thunder booms over the lake.
Kit cups his hand behind his ear. I shake my head and point to the surf below.
He motions for me to stay where I am. Then he inches forward. Careful, so damn careful. That’s Kit. Either cautious to a fault or diving in headfirst.
“Look, a wedding chapel. You wanna?”
“Wanna what?”
That grin, that glorious grin that made my brain spin in twenty directions. “Get married, of course.”
I laugh.
“You think I’m kidding?” he says. “I dare you to marry me, Laney Kilpatrick.”
“You dare me? What are we? Five?”
“Dare you, dare you, double dare you.”
I shake my head, sobering. “If you were ever serious about that, Kit, we’d need a prenup. The biggest, most ironclad prenup ever.”
“Which is why I am serious. Screw all that. Marry me, Laney. Tonight. Now. Before you overanalyze it.”
“BeforeIoveranalyze it?”
“Before we both do.” He grabs my hands. “Come on. Let’s do it.”
I squeeze my hands into fists, nails digging in, and when Kit glances at me, my expression is neutral.
