Page 7 of From the Wreckage

Everett

I’m pounding nails into the fence, trying to fix a loose board, when the hammer hits my thumb. I curse, shaking my hand as the pain courses through it. “Dammit. Focus.”

The problem is I can only focus on one thing—the brunette outside the post office.

For two fucking days, she’s haunted my thoughts and dreams. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake the image of her staring at me.

Even though my helmet obscured her view of my face, it was the way she looked at me.

Desire and hunger plain on her face and in her eyes. Like she wanted to come closer.

Blowing out a breath, I look at my thumb. It’s swelling, and I’ll need to put ice on it. But not right now. I’m determined to finish this fence.

You need to forget about her. How would she feel if she figured out who you are? The headlines from what you did.

I shake the thought away, my attention on the nail as I pound it so hard into the wood, I’m surprised I don’t splinter it.

I’m well aware of my sordid past. And that I should stay away from her.

The problem is, I’m not sure I can.

It’s mid-afternoon and I’m cruising Main Street, the engine of my Harley drawing the townspeople’s attention. My helmet offers protection, allowing me to smirk behind it without their knowledge. The curiosity etched on their faces makes my skin crawl. But they can’t touch me on my motorcycle.

I ride past The Timberline, where Grayson and I made plans to meet tomorrow night. My body tenses at the thought. If he starts asking a lot of questions, I need to be able to shut them down. If not, I need to have an excuse, and a backup excuse, to get the hell out of there.

I turn around when I reach the end of town and ride back down Main Street. I’m looking for her, but it’s freaking stupid. Of course, she’s not walking down the street or in front of the post office.

Maybe I should go into The Pine & Page and see if she happens to be there.

Before I can stop myself, I’m pulling my motorcycle into the small lot behind it. Cutting the engine, I take off my helmet and walk inside, my strides long.

The bell jingles as I walk inside. A few patrons look up, and the woman with the nametag that reads, “Leah,” looks up from the register and smiles.

Just like last time, I order a coffee and check out the whole damn shop, but my angelic brunette is nowhere to be found. There are a few mysteries and two thrillers that catch my eye. I grab them, then head to the register.

“Did Brielle pick up her books?” An older woman with graying hair and a nametag with “Margaret Thomas, Owner” says to Leah.

“Yup. She was in here about fifteen minutes ago and picked them up.” Leah turns to me with a friendly smile. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

No. The brunette isn’t here.

“Yes.” I flash a tight smile and pull my wallet from my back pocket.

“Great.” She rings me up and gives me my total. I hand her the cash, she gives me my change, then puts my books in a bag. “Enjoy. Hope to see you again soon.”

I nod, then hurry for the exit.

After putting my books inside the tail bag on my bike, I put my helmet on and take off, heading for home.