Page 27

Chapter 27

Liam

F leur puts it together and I almost laugh at her expression. Her stormy eyes narrow at the coat rack my grandfather made, and I know she’s made the connection when they burst open, widening while her head snaps to me. She must know the story behind these coat racks then.

She opens her mouth to say something when my grandmother’s voice rings out in the kitchen off to the right.

“Liam, is that you? I told your grandfather I heard that truck rumbling out in the—oh, Fleur. I didn’t realize you were here.”

My grandmother’s eyes drag over Fleur, working their way down her oversized shirt, that’s mine, and the sweatpants she can barely keep up, also mine. She looks between us, wiping her hands on her apron. The scent of orange scones wafts across the kitchen. Couple that with the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, my eyes suddenly feel heavy. Every time I come over here, I want to nap. Truly sleep because it’s something I haven’t done in years. This place is home. All things comfort. More so than my own parents’ house.

Adam didn’t think about Darrin coming after his portion of the Old Hillside legacy. Didn’t think he would. But that’s the thing about Darrin, he would, he did. I’d do anything for my brother, but I’d sell my soul to the devil so my grandparents could keep their livelihood.

Fleur shuffles behind me as she steps from the back door into the kitchen with familiarity and ease.

When I first heard the new girl in town was working at my grandparents’ bed-and-breakfast, I was happy they had some extra help around the place. They’ve had trouble keeping consistent housekeepers willing to show up and do a job most believe is beneath them. I’m unsure why Fleur escaped to our little town, although I doubt she’d say she’s escaped anymore. Although her determination to fix up the old farmhouse while cleaning rooms to do it is admirable.

Seeing Fleur with Pam at the bank, I instantly pinned her as the new girl, and I probably made myself come to town more than usual to get a small glimpse of her. Being able to talk with her in this very parking lot—her with no shoes—gave me more peace in the last four years than my drawing has.

I never had a shot with her, not really. Not with who I’m associated with. Then the town was buzzing with how Adam was helping her renovate the farmhouse and the local gossip mill had them married in the next five months.

Some part of me, maybe the primal part, relishes the fact I’ve married her and he can’t.

“Sit down, Fleur. We’ve been so worried about you! Can I get you a scone and some coffee? Your parents called here looking for you since they hadn’t heard from you. They mentioned a call to the sheriff but got nowhere.”

I sneer at that. Of course not. Darrin owns the sheriff. If anyone thinks there’s law and order in this town, it’s because Darrin allows it.

Fleur swallows, looking at me with sad eyes. I hate it. When she cried in River’s store, I about drove the two hours to the airport and put her on a plane myself, removing her from this ruin of a town. If I didn’t have so much riding here, I would’ve.

“Thank you, Mrs. Northgate. I’m okay. I-I’d love to call my parents to let me know I’m all right. Could I use your phone?”

My grandmother stares at me, and I know what she’s thinking already. How could I? The short answer is I paid a debt with my soul and everything I do is questionable these days. It’s hard to keep pointed true north. To keep the burn of hell from licking my heart.

“Of course, sweetheart. Here, let me grab that for you. Liam, your grandfather needs help in the garage.” She says it less like a fact and more like a command, one I jump at to avoid Fleur’s pleading face.

When I walk outside, the picture before me reminds me of when I found Fleur in the garage. My grandfather reaches for boxes inked with scrawled lettering across them I can’t make out. It smells rank in here. My nose wrinkles in disgust, and when my grandfather catches me out of the corner of his eyes, he blows a puff of air out through his mouth, the gesture swelling his cheeks.

“I know, Son. Something’s dead in here, and your grandmother tasked me to find it.”

I smile at the name he’s always called me. While I’m not truly his son—my mother is their only child—our bond is just as strong. Past events made sure of that.

“I can smell it,” I mutter, ripping the hair band from my hair and slicking it back to put up again. “How can I help?”

He lets out a chuckle. “Well, I need to get past all these boxes to find the issue. Probably a raccoon or possum got stuck back here and couldn’t make its way back out.”

Moving forward to help displace the stacked boxes, my boots thump against the concrete, and when I look down, the outline of feminine flats is still on the dirt-dusted floor. My mind wanders to the woman sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen, munching on orange scones and most likely being doted on by her nurturing ways.

Focus , I tell myself, mumbling the word that has been on repeat in my mind all day. This thing with Fleur is secondary.

“So why have you come by?” My grandfather groans as he bends low to wrestle a cardboard box that is darker in the bottom corner, having been soaked by something. I’m not sure I want to know.

“I needed Fleur to stop by.”

My grandfather sighs as he relinquishes his box to another pile of stored linens and garden gnomes. It’s slightly disturbing my grandmother’s affinity for them.

My grandfather’s expression morphs into one of confusion. The silver eyebrows matching his hair fold together, creating a deep V, and he tilts his head, searching for more than my few words.

“I married her.” It’s entirely vague and not enough information, but those three words worm their way into my darkened heart and my chest swells, regardless of the coercion.

Grandfather clears his throat, propping a lanky arm on his waist while the other comes up to rub his forehead. “Is this one of those—those—” He flutters his hand as if willing the word to come to him. I answer for him.

“Claimings. And yes. Adam dug himself into a hole again. Darrin thought taking Fleur would make him pay up. It didn’t. Then Blitz got ahold of her … It was … not a positive outcome. I stepped in.”

“As you always do. Does she know?” My grandfather’s words are stern.

“No.”

I kick a box off to my right and dive after it when it slides farther than I anticipate.

“Do you plan to?” My grandfather is my confidant and I look up to him in more ways than one. He’s more than family. The slinking urge to lie to him is on the tip of my tongue, but I go with the truth.

“Right now, it does no good.” My eyes rise up from the third box of gnomes I’ve come across and land on my grandfather. His wrinkled mouth frowns at me, the deep lines curling down and to the side as he contemplates.

“And what about Adam?”

“What about him?” I bristle at the mention of my brother’s name.

“Aren’t they an item?” he asks.

The fact is, I don’t know. I have a feeling someone wounded Fleur, and I doubt Adam has had enough time to accomplish the decimation of her heart. No. She ran here for a reason. Regardless, she is my wife now. That was the whole point.

“Darrin deems it a significant insult to Adam—me marrying her. I pitched the idea as that, but it was to save her life.”

He nods as if this makes sense to him, and I wonder if he’s truly understanding or if he has no words.

“And your mother? Your father?” Worry etches itself in the grooves around my grandfather’s eyes. For the same reason we avoided telling my mother about Adam, I’m assuming he would want me to avoid telling her this.

The thing is, we can’t avoid it. It’s supposed to get out. It’s supposed to weave around the small town, gossiped out of the mouths of the locals, quick and hurried. Surely the news will find my mother.

“I’m sure I’ll hear from them soon.”

We continue to work, my grandfather grilling me about my plans with Fleur, and I sense he’s hunting for any further motivations besides what I’ve told him. I can’t stomach the distraction each time her name is murmured. And the looming anxiety about tonight presses deep into my temples. I knead them.

“Aha! Found it.”

My grandfather shoves two boxes to the side, and I glance over his shoulder to find a half-decayed possum carcass. Poor guy. Must’ve run in while the garage was open and gotten stuck trying to get out. Instead of waiting by the door, though, he buried himself deeper, further blocking his path.

I make a note. Not to bury myself any deeper.

When we’re finished in the garage, we move back into the bed-and-breakfast. My grandfather makes straight for the kitchen, no doubt hankering for one of the scones. The half bathroom is off the entryway, and since there aren’t guests this weekend, I don’t bother knocking.

When I yank open the door, a high-pitched squeak escapes from someone.

Fleur leans over the bathroom sink, dabbing her puffy eyes. While they widen, mine narrow straight on the splotchy pink grazing her cheeks and her red-tipped nose half buried in tissue.

Hell .

“Why are you crying?” I ask. It comes out loud and in a growling tone I try to temper, but it’s no use.

Fleur rolls her eyes. Her hand holding the white tissue drops to smack her thigh with a dull slap. My sweatpants are rolled over her hips, the large T-shirt tucked into the side. A small patch of creamy pale skin, unmarred by the Southern sun, peeks through and I curl my hands into fists to keep from stroking a finger there.

She sniffs, and the noise beckons my attention back to hers.

“Who made you cry?” I ask again.

She raises her eyebrows, and those steely eyes pin mine with a deadpan stare. As if to say: who else?

Two beats pass and the stare between us lingers. But then Fleur shoves past me, her shoulder barging into my bicep as she steps through the door to stride away.

Once I’ve used the bathroom, I follow the voices coming from the kitchen and end up propping my body against the doorjamb to take in the scene.

Fleur stands at the kitchen counter, piping bag in hand as she dollops white cream on top of flaky puff pastry. A watery smile lifts away the sadness I encountered minutes ago, but it doesn’t erase her swollen eyelids or still wet lashes. My grandmother twirls around her and wipes her hands on her apron while my grandfather sips his coffee and flips through the mail on the table. Past him, the ducks in the pond parade about as if caught up in the twilight zone of happiness.

Annoyed, I shake my head at the warmth that hovers over my chest, but it’s quickly chased away with a single text message from Blitz.

Make sure that old lady of yours is ready for tonight.