As though the universe is scolding me for my reckless choices, the first notification is from the only person I would even consider texting at a time like this.
Belle
What?! Fuck no. But you tell me who did and I’ll put sugar in their gas tank.
I knew there was no way she’d been the one to tell David where I’d gone, but I wanted to be sure to cover all bases.
Isabelle Terry is the only person I still speak to from my hometown, and my best friend. Even though we went to the same schools for years, we didn’t run in the same circles—she was the 4-H type while I leaned more toward black lipstick and drama club—but when we both started working at the diner in town, we immediately clicked.
No matter how our paths led us in different directions, we never lost touch; we always effortlessly picked up right where we left off. At least until her husband was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago. From that point forward, there hadn’t been any need to pick up because we never left off.
He’d been gone a little over a year now, and leaving her behind was the single hangup I had when the opportunity to move here arose. Sure, while I was crashing with my brother in New Orleans, I wasn’t exactly down the road from DrippingSprings, Texas, but a few hundred miles was different than a couple thousand.
I KNEW you didn’t, but still...And once I find out who did I won’t stop you from vandalism.
Hard pivot: I promise to tell you EVERYTHING later, but tldr: I met a gorgeous man at a bar and I'm going home with him and I know it's stupid but I need a little stupid. And I need someone to know, so if I end up a statistic, I can be avenged.
“All good?” Cillian asks, starting the car.
“Mhm.” I nod.
Belle
So. Many. Questions. But yes, give me the details, and if you die, my mom will find him.
We’re pretty sure Belle’s mom was a PI in another life.
Belle
And share your location with me.
I give her all the info I know and share my location.
Now this was only slightly stupid.
Cillian's hand rests on my thigh, giving it an appreciative squeeze. His fingers tease, running up, stopping just short of where my thighs meet, the touch causing my breath to quicken and making me shift in the seat.
After ten minutes of torture, I finally break, “You're mean.”
At the light, he turns to me, the red wash of taillights making his wicked grin even more intoxicating. “I could be.” He grips my chin, pulling me toward him to deliver a chastekiss. “If you'd like.” I swallow hard, trying not to vomit out just how much I'd like that in excruciating detail.
The light changes.
Even though itfeels like hours, in reality, it only takes about five more minutes to pull into his driveway.
“Are you some kind of trust fund kid?” I ask, taking in the detached townhome before me.
Admittedly, as someone who has unironically uttered the statement “that's a nice double-wide” more than a few times in my life, my opinions on architecture aren't the most refined. A fact my ex absolutely loved to point out. However, with at least three stories, a charming red brick driveway, ivy growing up the side, and a lovely, well-maintained brick patio surrounded by flowers, the place is inarguably stunning.
“My dad ran a bar and my mom’s a school counselor, so. . .” He slips an arm around my waist, settling my back against the car. “No.”
I press my hand to his chest, temporarily pausing his kiss. “Ok. Are we about to meet your six roommates then? Because, while I’m sure they’re lovely people, if so, I will get us a hotel.”
He cocks a brow. “No. Just us.”
I look around him to get another peek at the facade. “The only other option is the mob or a rich spouse, because there is no way you live here alone. No offense.”
Cillian laughs, that rich sound once more turning my insides molten. “You know, not everyone in Boston is in the mob, right?”
