Page 34 of Stalked

A group of teenagers loiters outside the ice cream shop, reminding me of my own high school days. One girl dramatically flips her hair while a boy pretends not to watch. Ah, teenage mating rituals—somehow both evolving and completely unchanged since the dawn of time.

“Two-minute warning, people!” I call out to a couple making out against a storefront. “The PDA police are doing rounds, and I hear they're not issuing warnings today.”

They break apart, startled, then laugh when they realize I'm joking. The girl gives me a thumbs-up while her boyfriend turns approximately the shade of a fire hydrant.

God, I'd forgotten how everyone in this town knows everyone else's business. By tomorrow, Elliot will probably hear about my puddle incident from his dry cleaner's cousin's neighbor, who happened to be driving by.

I straighten my shoulders and pick up my pace. If the rumors about the Blackwoods' involvement are true, this gallery opening could put Ravenwood on the contemporary art map—puddles and all.

I turn the corner, mentally reviewing my opening night guest list, when my body collides with something solid. My portfolio slips from my fingers, papers scattering across the damp sidewalk.

“I'm so sorry, I wasn't—” The apology dies in my throat as I look up.

Vane Blackwood.

Time seems to freeze as I stare into those familiar green eyes, now set in a more chiseled face. My heart performs an unwelcome gymnastics routine in my chest.

“Lia Morgan.” He says my name like he's been expecting me, voice deeper than I remember but with that same undercurrent that always made my skin prickle.

I can't move. Can't speak. Can't process the cosmic joke of literally bumping into him on a random street corner when Ravenwood has tripled in size since I left.

He looks... different. The boyish charm has hardened into something more dangerous. His shoulders are broader under a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. A faint scar cuts through his right eyebrow that wasn't there before.

“You look surprised to see me,” he says, crouching to gather my scattered papers. “In my own town.”

His town. Of course, he'd think that way.

“I didn't—” I swallow hard, finding my voice. “I've only been back a couple of weeks.”

He hands me my portfolio, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact sends an electric current up my arm that I immediately resent. Fifteen years should be enough to neutralize whatever this is.

“Working for Elliot Chambers now,” he says. Not a question. “Interesting choice.”

Of course, he already knows why I'm here. The Blackwoods probably know when every streetlight burns out in Ravenwood before the bulb even cools.

“It was a good opportunity,” I manage, straightening my skirt with my free hand.

His eyes track the movement before returning to my face, expression unreadable.

“New York wasn't fulfilling enough?” Vane asks, one eyebrow arched. “Last I heard, you were climbing the ranks at Kensington Gallery. Something about a major exhibition you curated for emerging artists?”

A chill runs through me. That exhibition was barely covered outside of industry publications. How would he know about it?

“I'm surprised you've kept tabs on my career,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Vane's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “I make it my business to know about talented people. Especially those who leave without saying goodbye.”

There it is. The accusation wrapped in that velvet voice.

“We weren't exactly friends when I left, Vane.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping closer. “We were something else.”

I grip my portfolio tighter, refusing to back away despite the magnetic pull between us. “That was a lifetime ago.”

“Fifteen years, four months.” His gaze holds mine. “But who's counting?”

The precision of his answer unsettles me. I avoided him until graduation and left for college early. The way his jaw tightens tells me he hasn't forgotten.