Page 2 of Truly (Peachwood Falls #2)

L aina

The asphalt, busted with potholes but asphalt all the same, turns into gravel. Troy slows the SUV as its tires crunch across the rocks.

The field on the right side of the road has a path leading to a smaller field in the rear.

It’s on top of a hill, surrounded by trees, and was too much of a pain in the ass to farm, according to the old farmer who used to tend to the land.

My friends and I spent many weekend nights back there listening to music, building bonfires that almost got away from us, and drinking cheap wine and even cheaper beer like the adults we weren’t.

If only we knew how overrated adulthood really was …

On the left is a cornfield. A small brown home is tucked off the road.

The family who lived there were so sweet.

The father worked for the Department of Natural Resources and adopted a fawn that was left behind when its mother was shot during hunting season.

The little thing would eat an apple out of your hand.

I wonder what happened to it.

“Just down this hill and around the curve,” I say, shivering. Why is it so chilly in here? “The driveway is hard to see but on the right.”

Troy nods. “Should I wait with you outside the house, or would you rather I wait down by the road?”

“With all due respect, I would rather you return to the church.”

A frown darkens his face. “I’m sure you understand I can’t do that, ma’am.”

I hold his gaze in the rearview mirror, anger from being told what I can and can’t do in my own damn life boiling inside me. But that’s not Troy’s fault. He’s doing what he’s paid to do.

And he’s being paid by me .

“Look, I appreciate your concern and understand the challenge of returning without me,” I say. “But I need a minute to myself, and I really need no one to know where I am for a while.”

He watches me warily.

“Trust me. I don’t want to get whacked by a crazed stalker more than you don’t want me to be, okay?”

“I will have to tell my boss, Ms. Kelley.”

Great .

My response is delayed as the SUV slows at the end of a small bridge crossing a creek. The driveway is next to a mailbox that’s seen better days. We slip between the mailbox and guardrail and follow the bend around a hedge of trees.

And there it is.

My heart hammers against my rib cage as the yellow house with brown trim comes into view, its attached garage and large barn behind it.

The lake below reflects the clear blue sky, and if I weren’t running on adrenaline and eagerness to extract myself from this situation, I would appreciate the beauty and stillness of the moment.

The vehicle pulls to the top of the driveway and stops.

I stare at the door, wondering if he’s home. What will he say? What will he do? Despite the chance that Luke Marshall won’t be pleased to see me, my anxiety is the lowest it’s been all day.

My shoulders slump against the seat.

“This is it?” Troy’s sunglasses are gone, and he’s surveying the landscape for threats. “Want me to walk the perimeter or, better yet, clear the inside?”

I sit up. “Promise me you won’t tell Tom or my parents,” I say, holding on to the back of the seat. “If you have to tell Ford Landry, then fine. But let him know that if he shares my location with anyone … I’ll fire you all.”

His eyes blaze with frustration, but he heeds my request.

“Yes, Ms. Kelley.”

I open the door handle, but nothing happens. Troy triggers the unlock feature and hops out of the driver’s seat. When he’s around to my side of the SUV, I’m gathering the tulle.

“I can stay out of sight,” he says, clearly struggling with leaving me on a random doorstep. “I assure you that you won’t know I’m here.”

My bare feet hit the sharp rocks on the ground, and I wince. “Nope. I got this.”

“I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

“Nope.” I square my shoulders to his. “ I got this .”

He hesitates. “Call me if you need me. Do you have my number?”

“Yes. And, Troy? Thank you.”

He mumbles something I can’t hear, closes my door, and then goes to the other side. I quickly crack it open, turn my phone off, toss it onto the floorboard, and close the door again. My management’s insistence that I memorize my most important phone numbers is finally coming in handy.

As he drives off, rounding the turn and effectively going out of sight, I blow out the deepest, heaviest breath of my life.

I face the house that holds so many memories.

The walkout basement that Luke and I used when we didn’t want his grandfather, Poppy Marshall, to know we were there.

The birdbath next to the house has a permanent crack down the side because Luke hit it with his truck one winter while sliding on the ice.

I glance at the front porch. And the old pair of boots behind the porch swing—the one with the house key.

“Ouch,” I hiss, stepping lightly on the gravel toward the stairs.

My mind drifts away, carrying me back to the situation at the church.

How is Stephanie handling the drama? I envision the statement Tom is composing for the press.

He’s undoubtedly feeding me to the wolves .

It takes little imagination to picture my parents’ displeasure.

Did they outright take Tom’s side, or do they wonder, if even for a moment, what my side of the story might be?

Tears flood my eyes, fogging my sight.

If I had stayed, I’d be a married woman right now.

My hands shake as if I’ve just avoided being mugged.

The thought of cutting it so close—almost being Mrs. Tom Waverly—makes me nauseous.

Even though I’ll undoubtedly be on the receiving end of nasty vitriol in the coming days, it’s a small price to pay for avoiding a marriage that would’ve ended in divorce.

Tom may not understand it, but I did us both a favor.

I grab the rail and pull the tulle behind me up the stairs. Poppy’s standing ashtray from decades ago is still next to the swing. The sight of it surrounded by the ridiculous white fabric makes me grin.

I press the doorbell and wait. There’s no movement inside the house. I press it again.

My heart pounds as I dip my hand into the right boot.

“So predictable, Luke,” I say, pulling out the spare key. I stick it in the lock, and the door swings open as if waiting for me. The thought makes me smile.

The hardwood is warm on my bare feet. An earthiness unique to this place—mud mixed with tobacco and kissed by the sun—greets me like an old friend. I shut the door behind me and venture into Luke’s house.

A bigger television hangs on the wall. The refrigerator has been replaced. A few more pictures have been added to the collection of family photos on the unused dining room table. Not much has changed in the six years since I was here. Yet …

Every move I make is like a pin dropping to the floor. It’s as if the house is holding its breath like me. Somehow, it feels like I just came in after a shift at The Scoop to do homework with Luke.

My dress swishes against the floor as I cross the kitchen to inspect the photographs.

So many framed memories have been here for years—pictures of Poppy and Luke’s grandma and Luke’s parents. There are photos of Luke and his siblings. My favorite one is in the center of the table, and I pick it up.

Luke gives the camera the cheesiest grin. To his right are his oldest brothers, Chase and Mallet. On his left is his little sister, Kate. Crouched in front of them, as if he might attack the person taking the shot, is their brother Gavin. God, I love these people .

It’s hard to breathe as I gaze at the faces I haven’t seen in a long time—faces of some of the best, most hardworking, salt-of-the-earth people I’ve ever met. They loved me like their own. I loved them right back. Until everything fell apart …

I wipe away the tears rolling down my cheeks and set the picture back in its place.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper, looking around the house. “What am I doing?”

Panic surges, using the crack in my willpower to make itself known. My stomach clenches like I might puke. Fight-or-flight instincts kick in. My brain screams at my legs to move, to walk—to leave before I make a mess of things, but my heart whispers no .

There’s nowhere else to go, anyway.

I’m royally screwed.

I sit on the brown plaid couch. The springs bite through all the fabric attached to my butt and bite into my bones. At least I can feel it. At least I’m not that numb.

Gravel popping under the weight of a vehicle rings through the silence. I bolt upright, unsure whether to run out the back door or sit still and take whatever comes my way. For the briefest of seconds, I regret asking Troy to leave.

A door shuts. Boots climb the stairs. The handle turns, the hinges creaking.

I grab the edge of the couch, holding my breath and waiting for my eyes to meet Luke Marshall’s.

When he enters, his head is down. He shuts the door with his foot. With his phone in his hand, he lifts his face and stops mid-step.

The phone clatters to the floor.

I gasp as our gazes collide, and the world outside this room ceases to exist. The collision takes my breath as heat sizzles through my body, snaking down my spine in a slow, torturous curl.

I struggle to catch my breath amid the butterflies sweeping through my stomach.

Oh, my …

Luke Marshall is all grown up.

Age has done fine things to this man, filling him out in all the right places—broad shoulders and a barrel chest. A belt shows off his trim waist. Angled jaw. Long lashes . He wears a day’s scruff that makes me shiver.

No amount of social media stalking could’ve prepared me for this moment.

He tilts his head in surprise, then in confusion.

A sardonic smile parts his kissable lips. “What in the hell are you doing here?”