He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry, okay. I know I’ve been distant, and it’s probably been really confusing for you. I just . . .” Did Gage murder your family?
“I don’t want to make trouble for you. Nash and Cody, they’ve done so much for me and I can’t afford to . . .” He sighs. “Never mind.”
My chest hurts at the rejection in his face and suddenly this week of silence between us feels pointless. I’ve promised him honesty and then tucked tail when I should’ve just talked openly about what I’d learned, but at the risk of provoking Gage. I was protecting myself and I dragged him through the mud to do it. Typical Shy. “Let me come with you, okay? You can drive, and we can talk.”
“I don’t know—”
“Please, Lucas.” Now it’s me who’s fidgeting. “It’s only been a couple of days, but . . .” I dart my eyes around, then study the dirt in front of my feet. “I miss you.”
A hiss escapes his lips.
“Please . . .”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes grow intense, as if he’s trying to read my thoughts. Seconds tick by until finally he nods.
We move in silence to his truck and with the drive to the house on Dover being less than five minutes, I never build up the courage to talk to him about what I learned. In typical Lucas form, he doesn’t push to fill the silence with conversation.
At the house, I take the lead and knock on the door when a woman in her midthirties answers.
“Mrs. Anderson, I’m Shyann Jennings.”
She smiles and offers her hand. “Nice to meet you, and please, call me Gabby.”
“This is Lucas. We’re here to take a peek at the kitchen and dining room you were looking to get some custom woodwork done for?”
She offers her hand to Lucas and he visibly tenses. I contemplate pressing my palm against his back to encourage him and hopefully offer him comfort but before I do he reluctantly offers his hand for a quick shake.
“Come on in.” Gabby shows us the space and explains she has somewhere to be soon, so excuses herself to get ready. I stand back in the corner and watch in awe as Lucas moves around the space. Focused, his gaze slides along every surface in a visual caress while the creative wheels spin inside his head.
He stops at corners to do quick measurements, then moves to the next. In the kitchen it’s more of the same. Study, move, measure. Study, move, measure.
Every time he lifts his arms, I get a flash of his firm stomach and a strip of dark hair that disappears into his jeans. The long, corded muscles of his arms flex with every pull of the tape measure and images of being held in those arms have me squirming.
“Okay.” He doesn’t face me but shoves his things into his pocket, indicating he’s finished.
“Get what you need?”
He nods and quickly moves through the house, then outside to wait in his truck while I say goodbye to Gabby and let her know my dad will be in touch with a proposal.
The walk back to the truck is like marching to my own execution, because while I care deeply for Lucas, I can’t be with someone capable of murder. I’ve read the news accounts of what happened to Lucas’s family, but there are still unanswered questions, and before I walk away from this man for good, I will get the truth.
Just like Momma always said, like a dog with a bone.
TWENTY-SIX
LUCAS
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Nash Jennings hates my guts.
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for the torture he’s putting me through. Having Shyann so close, stuck in my truck with her and that penetrating stare, all while knowing I can’t have her.
The only thing worse is not seeing her at all.
She waves goodbye to Mrs. Anderson and I wipe my clammy hands on my thighs, forcing my pulse to slow. I blame my rapid heart rate on Mrs. Anderson. There’s nothing wrong with the woman, but women of her age, especially those who are confident, remind me of a time in my life I’d rather forget.
“Hey, sorry that took so long.” The corner of Shy’s mouth hooks up in a shaky smile, making me want to press my fingertips against her lips and soothe her nerves. “Do you . . . uh . . . have some time so we can talk?”
“No.” I don’t want to hear her talk about all the reasons why whatever we had didn’t work, don’t want to hear her confirm all the ways I’m not good enough for her. I turn from my leaning position on the hood of my truck and slide into the driver’s seat.
Her shoulders deflate and she climbs in beside me. I fire up the engine, hoping she’ll leave it alone, not force me to confess how miserable I’ve been not seeing her, how much I’ve missed her friendship, how often I’ve dreamt of her lips.
She cocks her knee and turns, facing my side head-on. “Lucas, there’s something I need to say to you and I’ll say it while you’re driving, but I think it would be better . . . safer . . . if we went somewhere to talk.”