Page 31 of Canvas of Lies (Spruce Hill #3)

“It’s done,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “So now all we have to do is wait.”

I nodded. I was tired, weighed down in a way that I wasn’t sure even she could lift.

Kat dried her hands on a towel and then came over to wrap her arms around me.

Without hesitation, I rested my head against her soft stomach and slid my own arms around her waist. We stayed that way for a few minutes, sharing our strength, until Kat finally stepped away.

“Now, if you’re finished fueling up with coffee and donuts, let’s get out of here,” she said, tugging at my hand. “We’re playing hooky this afternoon. I sent Erin home already, but you and I have a couple yard sales to hit.”

Whether she seriously wanted to start her weekend of scouting early or, as I suspected, she simply wanted to distract me from the impending fireworks, her plan worked. There was nothing quite like watching her haggle over a few grimy and often broken hunks of plastic or painted metal.

“You’re one cool customer,” I told her, impressed, as we left the first sale with an armload of goods.

Kat beamed at me and dropped a little curtsy.

“I do try. I’m sure half of these people think I’m completely ridiculous for bargaining over toys like that, but whatever.

This one will probably sell for close to a hundred after I get her cleaned up,” she said, holding up an ugly doll who looked like she’d gotten a nightmarish makeover from a toddler.

“Not once did you let on that any of this crap is worth more than a couple bucks. Very smooth, very collected. It’s a hell of a turn-on, you know.”

She laughed, a bright, musical sound that warmed me to my toes. “Well, I’m glad I’m not boring you, Nicolas.”

“I don’t think you could ever bore me, Kitten, even if you tried. And you know, I like the way it sounds when you say it.”

She smirked at me as we headed down the street to the next sale. “What, your name? You mean like an American instead of the French way, like your family? I’ll admit I found that pretty sexy.”

My lips curved. “Oh, you can speak French to me any time, mon c?ur. We already established just how hot I find that.”

Kat devoted our scouting excursions to keeping my mind off of the buzz generated by the photos using any means possible. She teased, cajoled, flirted—and for the most part, she was successful. I appreciated it, even during the moments when I couldn’t quite stop myself from looking at the alerts.

Aidan Willoughby had still not made any public statements, nor had he tried to contact me or Kat directly, but our anxiety grew throughout the weekend, knowing the other shoe was bound to drop .

On Sunday, Kat dragged me out to an antique mall almost an hour away, but even her own focus on the expedition was scattered. We still left with a canvas tote bag full of items, half of which I could barely recall seeing her pick out and which she confessed were probably worthless.

The most memorable purchase of the afternoon was a velvet painting of Elvis Presley wearing a sequined jacket, which she’d only agreed to buy because it had us both in stitches when we came across it.

I turned the radio to something soothing for the drive home and kept her laughing with some fond memories of our childhood adventures.

Kat was still wiping tears from the corners of her eyes when she caught me frowning at the rearview mirror.

All trace of laughter evaporated as she turned in her seat and spotted a dark SUV with tinted windows riding our tail.

“Does he want to pass us? Oh god, he’s close,” she whispered.

We were on a narrow country road in the middle of nowhere, miles still from Spruce Hill. My heart leapt into my throat as the driver of the SUV closed the already dangerously short distance between the cars.

Though I briefly considered trying to pull off to let the car pass, a yawning pit of dread opened up inside my gut. Asshole drivers were nothing I hadn’t dealt with before, but being tailed by one in a shiny new vehicle with dark-tinted windows felt altogether different .

Especially surrounded by endless stretches of farmland, forest, and little else.

At my side, Kat fumbled for a minute trying to unlock her phone, then she turned around in her seat.

“Jesus, be careful. Don’t take off your seatbelt under any circumstances,” I ordered.

She raised the phone, snapped a photo of the SUV’s license plate since we could barely see the driver through the windshield, then turned back around.

I glanced over and saw her dialing 911, but when the other vehicle struck our bumper, she cried out and dropped the phone.

I struggled to control the car as it lurched drunkenly forward.

“Hang on,” I said grimly, pressing my foot down on the gas pedal.

My thoughts raced faster than the vehicle, which was hovering just above seventy at the moment.

If we pulled over—or if we were forced off the road—there was no telling who or what we’d be facing if our tail followed us instead of speeding past. In my mind, images flashed in quick succession: volleys of gunfire, bullets riddling Kat’s beautiful body, blood coursing down her skin.

“He’s going to hit us again,” Kat said, a mixture of horror and panic in her voice. “Nico, he’s revving up to hit us again!”