I have some pride left. Not much, but I’ll cling to it.
“We weren’t doing anything!” My blurting game is strong today. “We just needed…”
What, Hope?What could you have possibly needed that you would drag a man into a closet with you to get?
Luke peeks at me, but he’s smiling a touch now. “You don’t need to tell me.”
“I’m so sorry, we were just…having a private conversation.”
“My supply closet really isn’t the best place for that.”
Griffin bends down to get the stray roll of register tape and puts it back on the shelf. “Next time, we’ll take it outside.”
He sounds more amused than mortified. That tracks.
My plan to keep us flying under the radar is off to a great start.
EIGHTEEN
GRIFFIN
My smile is dangerously smugwhen I see a text from Hope Sunday morning. It’s not another one of the waffle emojis she’s sent a couple of times. It’s better.
Hope: Do you know anything about electric trains?
Caleb and I used to have a set, but I haven’t played with one since I was ten years old. I think I know where her question is headed, though.
Griffin: Sure
Hope: Can you help me set one up? A big one?
It’s probably a good thing she can’t see me as I type.
Griffin: Just say when and where
She sends an address, and I throw on my heavy-duty flannel jacket and head out the door. Ten minutes later, I pull up in front of the old department store and find Hope’s red Jeep already out front. She was probably here when she texted. Late night last night, constant early mornings—does the woman ever sleep?
I climb out of my truck and go to the department store door. It’s propped open with a block of wood, and I knock on the glass as I pull it open.
Hope appears, her dark hair pulled up into a loose bun, wearing a grotesque orange Oregon State University sweatshirt with a pair of tired jeans that have gone ragged at the knees. Seeing her in something so casual, my brain pops and fizzes like she’s poured water over my hard drive.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks. With her looking like this, I’m ready for just about anything. She pulls me through the door and into the huge, empty space. “Look.”
I struggle to draw my eyes away from her when she’s so relaxed and delectable, smiling at me like we’re old friends. Or new, very close friends.
I want the second option.
Finally, I look where she’s pointing, but I don’t know what I’m seeing. A dozen boxes dot the empty department store’s ratty old carpet, each with a picture of a vintage electric train on it. The boxes look at least as old as the department store itself, the aging cardboard criss-crossed with yellowing tape.
“What is all this?”
“Fred Deckard’s trains.” Her voice is low like we’re in a museum. “These are just the ones he was willing to loan me.”
“He’s got more than these? That’s dedication.”
“You have no idea. He has an insane amount of trains, some in glass cases. His basement has a very creepy Smithsonian vibe to it.”
“What are you doing with these?”
