Page 40

THIRTY-FOUR

Tate

I’m not thinking straight as I run to the cabin through a rainstorm. One second, I’m enjoying a relaxed moment with Lauren—feeling like this is the type of family I’d love to be part of—and the next, I’m terrified that the book I’ve been working on since college might be gone.

It’s not like leaving a door open doesn’t happen. But this time? This was deliberate. Because I not only shut the door, I locked it. Not that it wouldn’t be an easy lock to pick since the cabin is as old as Moses. But someone messed with it, and I’m pretty sure I know who.

“Why are you so worried?” Lauren asks, running after me, both of us getting drenched.

I can’t tell her the truth—not yet, not like this. How do I explain that everything I dream about beyond hockey, is on that computer?

Finally, I see it: the cabin up ahead with the door wide open, swinging in the wind.

I race up the stairs, stopping when I reach the room. “Someone’s been in here,” I say, my voice hollow. Clothes litter the floor, and the table where my computer was has been tipped over.

My computer is gone .

Years of work. A hundred and twenty thousand words. The story I’ve poured myself into every night after practice, every solitary moment when I needed to escape into a world I could control. Gone.

I do a wide circle through the room searching for it, throwing blankets, pillows, clothes out of my way, frantically hoping that the thief just tossed it to the side.

But the computer is nowhere in sight.

Finally, Lauren steps in my way, her hands catching my forearms, stopping my frenzied search. “Tate, you’re scaring me. What is it? What are you looking for that has you this desperate?”

I glance away, holding back the secret I’ve protected for years.

I was waiting until we finished reading the book, not wanting her to find out while we were in the middle of the story.

Her honest reactions and uncensored comments have been exactly what I’ve needed to sort out every problem in the book—every plot hole, every inconsistency, even the pacing issues.

Over the past year, I’ve sent it out to a half dozen agents who said the same thing but in general terms (“fix the plot holes!”) and didn’t have time to show me exactly where the problem areas were.

But Lauren unknowingly provided me with all the answers because she didn’t know it was my book.

Now that I have to tell her, she won’t be able to give me her unfiltered advice.

Because she’ll be too afraid of hurting my feelings.

Which is exactly why I haven’t told anyone from the team about this book.

Ever since I’ve joined the Crushers, when I’d need time alone to work on my book, I’d just tell them I was heading to my room to read.

Nobody challenged that once. And I sure wasn’t going to let Leo tease me about being a fantasy writer after finding out I had a Gandalf costume.

That would only take me to full-blown geek status, and I can do without the additional ribbing.

“Tate, just tell me what is missing,” she says, looking intently at me, rain dripping from her hair. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”

Maybe that’s what finally stops me from panicking—the way she says “together” like she means it, like she’s in this with me, whatever this is.

“My computer,” I say. “I think whoever broke in stole it.”

She checks under the pillows on the couch. “But our family is the only one here. And this is too remote for someone to just stumble upon, unless you think…”

“Yeah, I do think it’s someone here.”

“Who?” she says, but the look she gives tells me she already knows.

“Someone who might have figured out that you’re not sleeping at the house, and they’re jealous.”

“Bart?” She frowns. “But why would he take your computer?”

“Because he wants to be a jerk,” I say, dragging a hand through my wet hair. “I’m guessing he broke in to figure out if you were staying here with me. And then when he figured it out, he decided to get back at me.”

“But you have everything backed up, right?” she asks.

“It’s supposed to back up automatically, but the cabin has no internet,” I explain. “I’ve been working offline all week. All the changes I made this week…those only exist on that computer. And it’s the best work I’ve ever done.”

She turns to me, confused, as the rain pounds against the roof. “What’s the best work you’ve ever done? What was on there that has you looking like you’ve lost something irreplaceable?”

I stare at the floor, unable to meet her quizzical gaze.

I remember after our prom date, how I promised myself that if what was between us was real, I’d tell her everything…

after the reunion. Maybe this isn’t how I planned it, but this is the moment where I need to trust her, to tell her the things I don’t share freely.

“You know that book I’ve been reading?” I begin nervously.

“Yeah, the one about Thorne and Kyara? The one we’ve been reading every night.” She looks confused. “What about it? ”

“I’m…” I stop, then try again, my voice catching. “It’s my book.”

She stares at me. “You own it?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I pause, finally meeting her eyes, letting her see this part of me I’ve hidden from everyone. “I wrote it. Every word. It’s mine.”

She blinks several times. “That’s impossible. You told me it was written by an unknown debut author.”

“Yeah, I’m the unknown author. I go by T.S. Foster.”

She shakes her head, dropping to the sofa bed. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out before. You told me you were a fantasy nerd, but this is a whole new level. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No one knows. I started this book as a secret project. My parents were never supportive of things like writing as a career, and I quickly realized it was very uncool in their world for me to be a fantasy writer. But I decided this was the last summer I would work on it, take one last shot. I’ve been stuck for weeks on how to make it better and thought I’d use this summer to rewrite it. ”

“And then my sister asked you to come to the reunion,” she says. “If I hadn’t gotten you involved as my boyfriend…”

“No.” I shake my head firmly, putting my hands on her arms gently.

“I was glad to come as your boyfriend. I wanted to be here. You were the one who helped me see the ways to fix it. Every night after I read to you, I made little notes about changes, and then transferred those to the computer the next day.”

“And now those changes are gone?” she asks, looking as desperate as I feel.

“Maybe,” I say, rubbing my hand over my face as I try to think clearly.

I need air, space to process this disaster before I do something rash.

The rain is getting worse, pounding against the roof like I want to pound my fists against the wall.

I head to the porch, watching it come down, and wonder what I should do.

Even if I confronted Bart now, he probably wouldn’t confess to me. It’s possible he could find the document and delete it, which could be calamitous, unless I can restore it from my backup before he deletes that copy too. There are so many ways this could go wrong.

Lauren joins me on the porch, staring at the downpour that’s rolling off the roof above us. Even though it’s only evening, the storm clouds have turned the sky an ominous charcoal gray, making it almost as dark as night. “So what’s our plan? Are we going to confront Bart tonight?”

“We might as well wait this storm out,” I say, turning to head back inside. “We can’t exactly march over there in this rain.”

As I shift my weight, my arm brushes the porch railing, catching on something sharp. I jerk back, but it’s too late. A rusted nail, sticking out from the railing, rips across my wrist, splitting it open in a nasty gash.

“Great,” I murmur, clamping a hand over the stinging wound.

“What happened?” Lauren asks, looking over at me.

“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine.” I try to angle my body away from her, but she’s already noticed the way I’m holding my injured arm.

“You are not fine. Let me see.”

I remove my hand as she looks at the cut, her fingers gentle as they cradle my wrist.

“Well, there goes your hand-modeling career,” she says flatly. “Looks like you need a bandage.” She leads me toward the small bathroom, flipping on the light as she rummages through the cabinet.

“It’s superficial,” I say, glancing at it. “Minimal bleeding. You know, ‘tis but a flesh wound.”

“You were sliced by a nail that’s probably older than both of us combined.”

“My tetanus shot is current,” I note.

“Tate,” she warns, “you’re getting a good cleaning, triple antibiotic ointment, and a bandage, whether or not you want it.”

“I’m just saying, statistically?— ”

“ Statistically ,” she cuts in with a stubborn look, “I don’t care. Sit.” She points at the edge of the bathtub.

“I’m perfectly capable of cleaning it myself,” I say, sitting.

“And perfectly terrible at accepting help,” she replies with a small smirk.

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. “Fine.”

She kneels in front of me and dabs a wet cloth on my cut to soak up the blood.

It stings like mad and I hiss, jerking my arm back. “Okay, that’s good with the cleaning.”

“Not even close to good,” she says, squeezing antiseptic onto a cotton ball.

When she applies it, I flinch. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

She points at the bottle. “Yes, my evil plan to assassinate you with dollar-store antiseptic has been revealed.”

“That bottle is probably thirty years old.”

She inspects the label. “Even if it is, it’s not going to kill you, Sheriff.”

“Who knows what’s actually in there?” I protest. “Someone could’ve filled it with poison.”

“I seriously doubt anyone broke into this cabin just to swap out the first-aid supplies with poison. Even Bart doesn’t have the wherewithal to come up with that.”

She pulls out the antibiotic ointment next. “Maybe it’ll hurt less if I distract you,” she says more gently. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

“The thing you don’t know,” I grit out, “is that I hate get-to-know-you questions with no point.”

“What a fun little fact. I bet you’re a delight at cocktail parties. Okay, since you love pointless questions, where do you see yourself in ten years?”

“Are you trying to torture me for fun?” I ask.

“Always, Sheriff.”

I sigh. “My dream’s always been to play hockey.”

“And after that?” she asks, staring at my cut.

“I want to get published. But writing’s a long shot.”

Her hand lingers on my arm as her face tips toward mine. “You’re not just some long shot, Tate. You’re extraordinary. Your book will get published. It’s too good not to.”

I blink, stunned by her words, before glancing down at the bandage I didn’t know she applied. “Wait…you’re done already?”

“See? Distraction works like a charm.”

I let out a low chuckle. “So you weren’t just asking about my dreams because you care ?”

“Of course I care.” She puts away the first-aid supplies, tossing me a grin. “You survived, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” I mutter.

Suddenly, the lights flicker in the cabin before they die completely, plunging us into darkness.

“The storm must’ve knocked out our power,” I say, standing. “I’ll see if there are candles.”

I find my way through the dark room until I reach the small cabinet in the kitchen. Inside are two candles and a matchbox. I light them, setting them on top of the fireplace mantel since it’s too hot for an actual fire.

She stands in the center of the room, her damp clothes clinging to her, pupils dilated in the dim light.

Her gaze drops to my chest, then quickly away. “Might want to hang that up to dry while we’re here,” she says, pointing to my soggy cotton shirt.

I squint at her. “Are you asking me to undress, Sunny?”

Her cheeks flush, barely visible in the dim light. “You know what I meant.”

She turns toward the sofa bed as I pull my wet shirt over my head and hang it on the back of a chair. When I sit next to her, she doesn’t acknowledge me. Or the tension in the room. Or the way she’s avoiding even looking my way.

And I’m suddenly aware of how alone we are—no family, no children, no distractions .

It’s not like we haven’t done this all week. But this time, it’s different—we can’t ignore the pull between us now.

A piece of damp hair falls into her face, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and gently tuck it behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her skin.

Her gaze lifts to mine, and for a second we both still, the candlelight making her face glow.

If I lean in, if I close that inch of space between us…

“So,” she says, clearing her throat and turning away from me. “What do we do now?”

I contemplate for a second and reply, “I could think of a few ideas.”

She tilts her head. “Are you trying to be smooth right now, Sheriff?”

“Smooth has never been my strong suit,” I admit. “But for the record, you’re the one who told me to take my shirt off.”

“I told you to hang it up to dry,” she says. “There’s a difference between common sense and…whatever this is.”

“Well, I’m sure it was the excellent medical care that gave me these ideas,” I say. “Even if the expiration date on those first-aid supplies was questionable.”

“I’d prescribe reading to keep your mind off any… ideas .” She looks over at my bag. “Could we read your book? You still have the old draft on the iPad, don’t you?”

I reach for my bag. “Yeah, the one before edits.”

She settles against her pillow, curling up next to me. “Perfect. Give me the unfiltered story.”