Page 97 of Too Far

She’s here a few days a week, and in her defense, she’s typically alone.

Louddoesn’t even begin to describe her standard volume, even when she’s alone, I’ve discovered. Apparently, she’s quite clumsy, too.

Her mess of tightly permed curls appears around the corner of the kitchen-slash-living room for a second as she peeks out.

“Oh. Oh!”

“Hi, Jeannie,” I call out.

With a sigh, Kylian hits the lock button on his iPad. There’s no sense continuing to work. We both know what comes next.

“Oh, Sugar. I’m sorry. I’m being loud again, aren’t I? And you’re in here trying to work. I’m not used to people being here, s’all. I’m all nerves and jitterbugs today anyway. I may have had a few too many cups of coffee last night while I was tracking the storm coverage.”

Across the table, Kylian goes rigid as I ask, “What storm?”

Jeannie props herself up on the doorframe and hitches a thumb over her shoulder. “Haven’t you seen the news? Tropical Storm Theo is heading right for us. Rumor has it the governor’s going to issue the evac warning during her broadcast tonight.” She waves us to follow, then scurries back to the front office, more frenzied than usual.

A tropical storm? My stomach sinks, and instantly, my thoughts get jumbled.

We’re a couple of hours from the nearest beach, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I know nothing about tropical storms and hurricanes. I’m from the Midwest. Snowstorms? Sure. The occasional tornado? I’ve spent a little time hanging out in the closet of my mom’s trailer, waiting for the all-clear.

Kylian scrutinizes me as he rises from his seat at the table.

Offering me a hand, he pulls me to my feet. When I’m standing, he slides one hand down my back, and then he guides me to the front office, where Jeannie’s got the news blaring on the TV mounted on the wall.

It isn’t until I step into the space that serves as the office and main entrance for Sam’s Salvage and Parts that I realize Jeannie isn’t alone.

On the other side of the room, below the TV, two men stand with their arms crossed, watching the storm coverage.

They turn when Jeannie walks back in waving a file and telling them she found it.

They focus on her for a moment.

Then, almost in unison, their eyes flit to me.

“I’ll be damned,” one of the men says, a brow raised and a smarmy smile on his face.

Kylian takes a step closer and moves his hand from my back to my side, holding me at my hip.

With an elbow, the first guy nudges his buddy, who’s still staring at the TV as the meteorologist standing in front of a radar image projected onto a green screen goes on about the storm’s predicted path.

“That’s the girl, isn’t it?” he asks his friend, not bothering to lower his voice. Then, to me, he lifts his chin. “Aren’t you that girl? The one who was with Decker Crusade but hasn’t been to any of the games lately?”

Stomach twisting, I close my eyes and shrink into Kylian’s side.

“No.” Kylian’s tone brooks no argument. “You need to leave,” he tells the two men. Then he turns to Jeannie. “You need to close for the day.”

Then, with the kind of energy he usually reserves for the bedroom, he takes my shoulders, turns me on the spot, and marches back down the hall to the living area.

“Those men know nothing. Those men mean nothing. Don’t let them get to you, baby.”

But it’s too late.

My heart sinks, knowing so many people blame me for ruining the Crusaders’ perfect season. They didn’t say anything that the rest of the town isn’t already saying.

The Lake Chapel Crusaders have lost their last two games.

One game is a fluke.