Chapter Thirty

TWO MONTHS LATER

Kate

"This one's a winner," Gavin says, holding up his fork. He just tasted my latest creation; a triple berry cream pie with a layer of cheesecake at the bottom.

"Dad, what do you think?"

He yawns. "I think I need a nap."

"I was talking about the pie."

"It was excellent. That's why I'm so tired. I had three slices."

My mom laughs. "Let's get you home. I could use a nap too." She smiles at me. "I'll be back later to help you clean up."

"Don't worry about it. Gavin and I will do it. We'll see you at dinner."

"Sounds good."

The two of them walk off, hand in hand. My parents are living together now in an apartment three floors up from Gavin and me. We live in a high-rise building on the beach. The apartments aren't fancy but the location is great and my pie shop is just down the street.

The shop isn't open yet but it will be in a month. I've got a crew getting the inside ready and I'm testing recipes for the menu. I feel like I just did this; getting ready to open a restaurant, except now I'm better at it because I've done it before. And I'm more relaxed because I don't have Mr. Walcott and his "investors" stopping by to check on me.

After my talk with Mr. Kensington at the coffee shop, Gavin and I decided to leave everything behind and move to Florida to get a fresh start. Mr. Walcott tried to convince me to stay but I told him I wanted to be closer to my mom. I offered to give him full ownership of the restaurant, free and clear, but he declined the offer and instead paid me an amount he thought my part of the restaurant was worth. I'm using that to open my pie shop. Walcott also made me an investor in my former restaurant. I didn't want that, but he insisted, saying it'd be a good source of income going forward. But I think the real reason is so that I remain tied to him, and to them.

I haven't learned anything more about that group and I don't know who the members are, other than Mr. Walcott and Mr. Kensington. But despite my curiosity, I'm doing as instructed and not asking questions. I'm trying to not even think about it, but I still do, especially when I talk to Megan. She's still in Connecticut, living with Decker, who's still going to Moorhurst.

She must've known I was thinking about her because my phone dings with a text from her. The text reads, Miss you! Give me a call when you can!

She knows I'm super busy getting the pie shop ready so she doesn't call as much as she used to. Instead, I call her when I get a break, like now, as Gavin and I sit here on the beach, surrounded by empty pie plates.

"Hey, Megan, what's up?" I say when she answers.

Gavin, who was napping, opens his eyes and looks at me. It's the look that says to change the subject if Megan starts in with her conspiracy theories. It seems like she has a new one every week, usually involving Moorhurst, but she's never able to prove any of her theories are true. I really wish she'd stop looking for trouble, because that's exactly what it is. If it's true that the secret society is somehow involved with Moorhurst, she needs to stay away from it. Unfortunately, she got a job there at the library.

"So the other day," she says, "this girl needed help at the library. As I was helping her, I found out she just started classes at Moorhurst in the middle of the semester. Isn't that weird? Who transfers in the middle of the semester? I found out she—"

"Megan. You didn't even say hello."

"Oh. Sorry. Hello. Anyway, turns out this girl is from one of the wealthiest families in the country and her brother is—"

"Megan, we talked about this. No more conspiracy theories."

"It's not. I'm just telling you about this girl."

"Which will lead to one of your theories. So, switching topics, when are you guys coming down here?"

"Would Thanksgiving work?"

I smile. "Are you serious? That'd be awesome! But what about your families?"

"My parents are going on a cruise and Decker's parents are going to London, which means we're free to go where we want. You sure it's okay?"

"Are you kidding? It's great! I can't wait to see you guys."

"Then we'll plan on it. Kate, can I call you later? Someone needs help." She sighs. "These students are so demanding. Can't they just do their research without assistance?"

I laugh. "Talk to you later."

"Yeah, bye."

"What are you so happy about?" Gavin asks, noticing my huge smile.

"Megan and Decker are coming for Thanksgiving."

"That's great, but where are we going to fit all these people?"

"My mom's table seats six. We'll eat there."

"We need room for eight." He leans over and kisses my cheek. "Hope you don't mind, but I invited my mom and Henry and they both said yes." He grins. "You good with that?"

I hug him. "You know I am. You know I've always wanted a big Thanksgiving with family. And I miss Henry. As for your mom, well, we're working on that, but I'm sure she'll come around eventually."

Gavin's mom is mad that he moved to Florida and she's blaming me for why he did it. The last time we were at her house, she barely spoke to me. But I'm giving her a break because I know she's lonely and misses her son, so if she wants to deal with it by ignoring me, that's fine. It's better than having her go back to drinking. She's still sober, and according to Gavin, Henry still goes and checks on her every week. 

"She likes you," Gavin says. "She just has a hard time showing it." He stretches out on his beach chair. "This is the life. I may just forget about getting a job and do this all day."

When Gavin quit his job, Jett was furious and completely shocked. He couldn't believe Gavin would give up the opportunity to work for him. As predicted, Jett told Gavin he'd never work in politics again, but Gavin was okay with that. He's done with politics. It doesn't excite him like it used to. So now he's thinking of doing something completely different. He's not sure what that is yet so he's taking time off to think about it.

I'm thrilled he's no longer working in politics but getting out of it for good wasn't easy. Gavin doesn't know that and I'm not going to tell him. We said no more secrets but keeping this a secret was part of the deal.

Soon after we moved to Florida, I started to get the feeling we were being watched. And I was right, but it wasn't me they were watching. It was Gavin. Suddenly he started getting all these invites to parties hosted by local and state politicians. Gavin assumed it was because these people had been friends or supporters of his dad. But that wasn't the only reason he was invited.

We went to one of these parties and when I looked around, I recognized some of the men. They'd been at some of the events I'd catered when I worked for Carol. They weren't part of the usual Connecticut social scene, but instead only appeared now and then. And more than once, I saw them take Gavin's dad aside to talk to him privately. They'd go into a room, and when they came out Niles seemed on edge. At the time, I didn't think anything of it, but now, knowing what I do, I think they were threatening him, trying to keep in line. I think it was them. Members of that secret group.

So when I saw them approach Gavin at this party we went to, I panicked. I didn't know what they wanted, but given what Gavin told me about his meeting with the vice president, I got the feeling they were going to force Gavin to follow in his father's footsteps.

The next day, I made a call to Mr. Kensington. His secretary answered and said he couldn't talk so I called again later but he still wouldn't talk to me. So I left a message that said, "I promise you my silence. Leave Gavin alone."

In response, the next day, I got a piece of paper hand delivered by a kid who ran up to me when I was walking alone on the beach. The paper read, Favors aren't asked for. They're given. At our discretion.

The words sent a chill through me. I panicked, thinking I'd done something wrong by asking. I was sick with worry that entire day, assuming they'd do something to punish me for my mistake. But then the next day, while Gavin and I were getting ready to go to dinner with a state senator, the senator's secretary called and said the dinner had been cancelled and wasn't being rescheduled. Gavin was surprised but I wasn't. I was elated. They'd granted me a favor. I don't know why but I didn't dare ask. I was tempted to call and thank Mr. Kensington but I didn't. I left it alone, and contemplated whether I should tell Gavin.

The following day, that decision was made for me. Another kid ran up to me with a scrap of paper. This time it read, Keep your silence. Silence is rewarded.

It meant I was never to tell Gavin, and so I'll keep this secret, but only because I have to.

Now, months later, I haven't heard a word from them. I feel like I'm finally free to live my life. I know it's not entirely true. They'll probably always keep tabs on me, but as long as I follow the rules, I know they won't bother me.

As Gavin naps in his chair, I get up and walk along the beach. I love hearing the sounds of the waves. It's so peaceful, so relaxing.

"My ball!" I hear someone yell. I look down and see a beach ball hit my legs and a little girl with blond hair right behind it.

I pick up the ball. "Here you go." I hand it to her.

"Thank you!" She smiles. I recognize that smile, and the little girl. It's Pearce Kensington's daughter.

I look up and there he is, approaching me.

"Sorry about that," he says, standing behind his daughter.

"It's okay."

"We'll just be continuing on," he says, as though we're strangers.

As he passes by me, I say, "What brings you to Florida?"

He stops and turns around. "Number one rule, Kate."

Never ask questions. The words echo in my head.

He smiles. "Enjoy the sunshine. It's a bit too much for me, but I'm used to the clouds. Goodbye, Kate."

"Bye."

As I watch him leave, I get the feeling he was sent here. Or maybe he came on his own. Whatever it was, he was giving me a message. Reminding me of the rules.

The rules I will live by, because silence is rewarded. And my reward is getting my life back. A life of my own. A life with Gavin.

#

From the Author

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More About the Secret Society

The secret society featured in Kate and Gavin's story, known as 'the organization', first appeared in the Jade Series, then appeared again in the Kensington Series. If you didn't read those series, here's some more info about this elite group.

The organization is a secret society made up of powerful billionaires. Membership is passed down from father to son and is not optional. Daughters cannot be members but are expected to marry one of them. Recently, the organization has been recruiting members from the outside, but only if the person is a good fit and will provide benefits for the group.

The organization uses their money and power to rig political elections, including the presidential election, so that they can control key decisions being made which might jeopardize their power and wealth. They hand select and groom their candidates, which is what they did with Niles. If anyone stands in their way or finds out about them, the person may be killed or silenced in some other way.

If you want to read more about the organization and what they do, read the Kensington Series or the Jade Series.

Get Your Moorhurst College Gear!

Moorhurst College was originally featured in The Jade Series and now has its own series with all new characters and stories, starting with Secrets Kept! Show your school spirit for this mysterious private college with a t-shirt, sweatshirt, water bottle, and more! to go to the shop. 

***

Books by Allie Everhart 

(Click on titles to purchase at Amazon)

(New Adult Romance/Suspense)

 

The Kensington Series

(Romantic Suspense)

Moorhurst College

(Romantic Suspense)

Standalone Novels

 

 

 

***

Do you like romance mixed with mystery and suspense? Check out The Jade Series! It's a story of forbidden romance. Deadly secrets. Hidden agendas. And rules that must never be broken.

Choosing You (Jade Series, book one)

When Jade is given a scholarship to an elite private college in Connecticut, she sees it as a chance to finally escape her painful past and get a fresh start. She's determined to succeed and that means keeping her focus on school and not guys. But that plan falls apart her first day on campus when Garret, a wealthy prep school boy with swimmer abs and a perfect smile, offers to help her move in.

Jade tries to push him away but she can't deny her attraction to him and Garret won't let her. Things quickly heat up between them, but then come to a sudden halt when reality hits and Jade realizes that a relationship with Garret may never be possible. He comes from a world of wealth where there are rules, including rules about who he can date. And not following those rules has consequences.

As the two of them try to overcome the obstacles working to keep them apart, Jade is confronted with another challenge. On her 19th birthday, she receives a letter that her now deceased mother wrote years ago. In it are revelations that explain her traumatic childhood but also make her question the past she's been running from.

***

If you'd like to read one of my standalones, here's the first chapter of Next to Me, an emotion-packed contemporary romance!

Callie

One, two, three, four. I continue counting the steps in my head as I walk to the mailbox. I don't know why I do it. Why I constantly count. I didn't used to. Three hundred and eighty-five days ago I only counted when I needed to. In fact, counting used to be a good thing. Only four days until Christmas. Six days until my birthday. One week until I'm home on summer break.

Ten, eleven...

"Twelve," I mumble to myself as I reach the mailbox. It takes exactly twelve steps to get to the mailbox and twelve steps to get back. I never knew this until a few days after it happened. Before that, I wouldn't have cared. I still don't care. And yet I keep counting, each and every day.

I put my electric bill in the box, then turn and walk back. One, two, three...

My gaze is focused on the concrete path that leads to the house. It's cracked and crooked, the ground seeping through, making it uneven and dangerous to walk on. That's why I always look down, making sure I don't trip.

Seven, eight—

An engine roars behind me.

"What the..." I look over and see a large, black, rusted-out pickup pulling in next door. It's going way too fast and jerks to a stop. The loud rumbling engine idles a moment, then turns off.

A shot rings out and I trip on the sidewalk and drop flat to the ground.

What was that? Did someone just shoot at me? I freeze, waiting to see if they'll shoot again. I hear the door of the truck squeak open, then slam shut. I keep my gaze low to the ground, afraid to look up and see the person who I'm now assuming is a raging lunatic who just randomly shoots his gun at strangers.

I'm shaking as I stare at a pair of black work boots which are now planted in the driveway next to mine. The owner of the boots is not moving, his legs in a wide stance facing the house. Did he come here to kill my neighbor? If so, my neighbor's already dead. Old Man Freeson, as I used to call him, died last year and his house has been abandoned ever since.

The boots take a step forward, then stop again.

"Oh, shit," a deep voice says, and then the boots stalk toward me at a rapid pace.

'Oh, shit' is right. He's coming to kill me! And I'm so frozen with fear I can't get up.

"Hey. Are you—"

"Stop!" I yell, crawling backwards on my hands. "Get away from me!"

The boots are in front of me now, as is a man's face. He's crouched down, staring at me with the bluest eyes I've ever seen. He looks older than me, maybe 24 or 25. "I was just seeing if you're—" 

"What do you want?" I ask, scooting back more, landing in the wet grass. I feel it soaking through my shorts but that's the least of my problems right now. I point to my house. "Take what you want." My voice is shaky, my heart pounding. "Just please don't hurt me."

"Hurt you?" He cocks his head. "What are you talking about? I came over to help you. And it looks like you need it." His hand touches my leg and I freeze again, then glance down and see my knee is bleeding. I must've scraped it when I fell. It's more than a scrape. It's bleeding a lot and it hurts like hell.

"Don't touch me!" I yank my leg back. "Get out of here!"

He's staring at me and his lips slowly turn up. "Are you always this friendly to your new neighbors?"

"Neighbors?" I scrunch my face up in confusion.

He rises to standing and holds his hand out. "Here. Let me help you up."

I gaze up at him. For a deranged lunatic, he's really hot. Over six feet tall with a deep tan, short dark hair, and rugged features. He's wearing a gray t-shirt that stretches over his thick shoulders and clings to his biceps. He's a big guy and all muscle. He wouldn't need a gun to kill me. He could do it with his bare hands.

He's still waiting for me to take his hand, but I won't do it. This is obviously a trap. Shooting me on the ground is too boring. Too easy. Instead he'll drag me to the neighbor's house, torture me for hours, then kill me.

Oh, God. What if that's his plan? Why me? I don't even know him.

"Hey." He's crouched in front of me again and puts his hand on my arm.

I yank it back. "Stop touching me! Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to kill me?"

He laughs a little. "Kill you?"

I huff. "You think this is funny? Seriously?" I keep my eyes on his face, specifically his eyes, because you can tell a lot from a person's eyes. This guy's eyes are calm, relaxed, and a rich blue color that reminds me of those postcards from the Caribbean of the white sand beaches that lead into crystal clear blue water that doesn't even look real. I always assumed a deranged lunatic's eyes would be dark and bloodshot, fluttering at a frantic nonstop pace. So now I'm confused. Is he a lunatic or not? I'm still going with lunatic. After all, he shot a freaking gun at me!

"What's your name?" he asks.

"So now you want to know my name before you kill me? Why? Is it part of some sick game you—"

"Hey." He touches my arm. I flinch and he removes his hand. "I didn't mean to scare you." His voice is low and soft. "And I'm not trying to kill you."

"You're not?" I ask suspiciously.

"No." He laughs a little. "I saw you over here on the ground and I came over to help."

"I don't need help," I say, my gaze dropping to my knee which is now bleeding all down my leg.

"Actually, I think you do. Your knee's really banged up. I got a first aid kit in my truck. Let me go get it." He stands up.

"No!" I try to get up but my knee is throbbing and I'm afraid to put pressure on it. I didn't realize how hard I fell. "I'm fine. Just go away."

"I'll be right back," he says, casually walking back to his truck. I shouldn't be staring, but damn, he has a good body. Wide shoulders, tapered waist, and an ass that nicely fills out his jeans.

What the hell am I doing? I should be trying to get inside my house, not drooling over the guy who shot at me! But maybe he didn't shoot at me. Maybe he just shot a gun to scare away whatever critters he thought might be hiding in the overgrown weeds that used to be Old Man Freeson's lawn.

I scoot back onto the walkway that leads to my house, but before I even make it a foot closer, he's back, holding a small white box with the words 'first aid' written on it in bright red letters.

"So why did you think I shot at you?" he asks, kneeling down in front of me.

"Because you did," I say, watching as he opens the box. "I heard the gun go off."

He looks to the side and his brows furrow like he's thinking. And then he smiles back at me. "That must've been my truck. Sorry about that. I'm so used to it I don't even notice it anymore."

"Your truck? That sound came from your truck?"

"It's old as dirt, and for some reason it always makes that sound when I turn the engine off. I've brought it into the shop and the mechanics can't figure out why it does that. So I just live with it." He points to my knee. "We need to clean that off before I bandage it up." He rises up and offers me his hand. "Let's go inside."

I reluctantly take his hand and let him pull me up. "Just help me to the door. I can clean it up myself."

"Let me do it." He smiles at me as he wraps his arm around my middle, supporting my weight. "I'm a professional."

"A professional what?" I ask, hobbling toward the door.

"EMT. I'm not anymore, but I was for almost a year. I'm an expert in emergency medical treatment, so a scraped knee is nothing."

My mind flashes to the many nightmares I've had about the accident. I wasn't there so I don't know what it looked like but based on what the police told me, my mind fills in the images. And I always see the EMT workers, who are faceless in my dreams but wearing uniforms; dark blue pants and matching shirts. They're the first to arrive at the scene and I'm always yelling at them to hurry up. To save my family. But it's too late. It's always too late. Why didn't they save them?

I shove him away. "I don't need your help."

"What's wrong?" He turns to me. "Why are you yelling?"

I'm yelling because he was an EMT and EMTs killed my family. Well, they didn't kill them, but they didn't save them which in a roundabout way is like killing them. But that's not this guy's fault so I really shouldn't yell at him. 

I sigh. "Could you please just leave me alone?" I turn and take a step toward the door, but I wasn't looking down and my foot catches on a piece of broken concrete that the ground has pushed up. I'm always super careful not to trip on it. Except for today.

Strong arms encircle my waist right before I hit the ground and raise me up to standing.

"What were you saying about not needing help?" he asks. Before I can answer, he reaches under my legs and scoops me up and starts walking to the door. "Is it unlocked?"

"Put me down!" I say, pushing on his chest, which is rock hard.

He ignores me and keeps walking, stopping at my door.

"You're not going in my house," I say.

He ignores me again and walks right in. As he's shutting the door, I glance back at the walkway and realize I forgot to count my steps. I didn't finish. Dammit! I always finish. I've counted every day since the accident but today I didn't. Anxiety takes over the fear I had earlier of my deranged-killer-EMT-neighbor, and my mind starts racing. I should've counted. Why didn't I count? Dammit!

I take a deep breath. Why am I reacting this way? Why do I do this to myself? When did I become so obsessive and how do I make it stop?

"Do you have a washcloth in the bathroom?" the guy asks.

I notice I'm now sitting on the couch and my lunatic neighbor is walking down the hall to my bathroom.

"What are you doing?" I yell at him. "You can't just walk around my house! I didn't even invite you in!"

He's in the bathroom now so I don't know if he heard me. Moments later, he returns with a wet washcloth and a bottle of peroxide. He sits down next to me and lifts my leg up, resting it on his lap.

"You went through my medicine cabinet?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"And your linen closet." He dabs the wet washcloth over my knee. "You have a lot of towels for one person. Or do you live with someone?" He glances around the room, then back at me. "You live with your parents?"

He asked because the house still looks like they live here. It's been over a year and I still haven't cleared out their stuff. My mom's knitting basket is still sitting by her chair with a half-knit scarf inside. The James Patterson novel my stepdad was reading is still on the side table next to the couch. And although this guy can't see them from where he's sitting, my little brother's toys are still in a plastic bin in the corner.

God, I'm messed up. Who lives like this a year later? Any normal person would pack up their dead family's stuff and get rid of it. But me? I leave it all out, pretending they never left, waiting for them to come home. What is wrong with me?

"It's my parents' house," I say, "but they're not staying here right now."

"Where are they?"

"It's none of your business," I snap. "Just hurry up and finish this."

"You get up on the wrong side of the bed today?" he asks, smiling. He has a nice smile. Nice teeth. Very straight. I have a thing about teeth. Crooked teeth really bother me. But this guy's teeth are very straight.

"Sorry," I mutter. "It's just not turning out to be a good day." It's true, but it's true for every day, not just today. From the moment they died, every day has been bad. A constant stream of bad days that repeat over and over as time continues on.

"Well, hopefully we'll get this knee fixed and your day will start going better," he says, focusing back on my leg. He uses the washcloth to wipe the blood off the front of my calf. My eyes go to his hand, which is large and tan, and there's a scar that runs between his thumb and forefinger.

"How'd you get the scar?" I ask, pointing to it.

"Nail gun. My idiot brother wasn't watching what he was doing and nailed my hand to a two-by-four."

"That must've hurt."

"It wasn't too bad, but the nail went in at an angle and I thought I might lose my thumb. Luckily the hospital was nearby." He sets the washcloth down and grabs the peroxide, but then puts it back down. "Do you have some cotton balls?"

"Under the sink in the bathroom."

He gets up and as he's walking there, I remember that all my tampons and pads are under the sink.

"Wait!" I call out, but it's too late. He's already in there. Oh, well. Maybe he won't notice.

He comes back with a handful of cotton balls. "Why are you blushing?" He sets my leg back over his lap.

"I'm not blushing."

"Your cheeks are bright red." He wets the cotton balls with the peroxide. "Is it because of what was under the sink? If so, you don't need to be embarrassed. My girlfriend always kept that stuff at my place."

So he has a girlfriend. Or maybe it's an ex-girlfriend, but he didn't add the 'ex' so it's hard to say. But he said she used to keep that stuff at his place, like she doesn't anymore. Or maybe he meant that she did when he lived at his previous place, which he doesn't now. What am I doing? Why do I care if he has a girlfriend? I'm not interested in him that way. I haven't dated anyone in over a year and I'm perfectly fine being single. In fact, I prefer it.

"Oww!" I yell as he dabs my knee with the peroxide. I try to yank my leg away but he holds it in place.

"Stop moving," he orders, leaning down to inspect my knee. "You really scraped this bad. How'd this happen? You just tripped or what?"

"Yeah." I roll my eyes. "I tripped when your truck shot at me."

He laughs. "It didn't shoot at you. It's just a piece of shit truck. Sorry about that." He sets the cotton balls down. "Now I feel bad. I didn't know that's what made you fall. How can I make it up to you?"

"You don't need to. Just forget it. Besides, it wasn't completely your fault. That sidewalk needs to be repaired. I'm surprised I haven't tripped on it before."

"You want me to fix it?"

"You can fix a sidewalk?"

"I can fix most anything, except for that stupid truck."

"Um...no. That's okay."

"Let me fix it. I have to do something after scaring you half to death." He takes a large bandage out of his first aid kit.

"No. Really. Just forget it."

I don't want this guy hanging around my property. I still don't even know who he is or anything about him. So why did I let him in my house? I didn't. He just barged in, carrying me like I was Jane and he was Tarzan. He would make a good Tarzan with that dark hair and that body.

"There." He secures the bandage in place. "I'll leave you some extra bandages. You should change it once a day."

"Okay. Thanks." I lift my leg off him and sit up straight.

"I don't think I ever introduced myself." He holds his hand out. "Nash Wheeler."

I shake his hand. "Callista."

He smiles. "That's a nice name."

"I go by Callie."

"Also nice," he says, still smiling. "So are you home on college break?"

How do I answer that? I don't want him knowing too much about me, especially about what happened last year. I don't like talking about it, which is why I never do. In fact, nobody in this town even knows about it except Lou, my boss.

"Yeah. I'm home for the summer," I say, hoping to leave it at that.

"So you grew up here?"

"No, I'm from Chicago."

"Oh, yeah? Me too. So you just come down here for the summer?"

"Yeah."

"So where do you go to school?"

Too many questions. He needs to leave.

"I don't really have time to talk," I say. "I have some stuff to do, but thanks for your help. I'll see you around."

"Maybe we could talk later. You're the first person I've met here and I don't really know much about the town."

"There's not much to know. It's a small town. It's pretty boring."

"There must be something to do around here." He snaps the cover closed on his first aid kit.

"Not really. We have some bars downtown. And there's a state park close to here if you like to hike. That's about it."

"Drinking and hiking?" He smiles. "That's all there is to do?"

"Pretty much."

"I passed a bowling alley on my way into town. And I think I saw a golf course."

I shrug. "Well, there you go. There's all kinds of things to do. So why are you moving here?"

"I'm not moving here, at least not for good. I'm just here for a few months. I'm fixing up the house next door. It might get kind of noisy at times with the equipment, but I'll do my best to keep it down."

"And you're going to live in it while you work on it?"

"That's the plan," he says, leaning back on the couch.

I can't imagine anyone living in that thing. It's a dilapidated house with peeling paint and missing shingles. Why would anyone try to fix it up? It should be condemned.

"What are you doing to it?" I ask.

"Renovating it," he says confidently. "Top to bottom. The inside, outside. It's going to look great when it's done."

He's delusional. There's no way that house can be salvaged. It's really old, and Mr. Freeson lived there forever and never did any maintenance on it. The support beams are probably rotted out or eaten by termites. I'm surprised the house hasn't collapsed by now.

My house is just as old, but my stepdad was diligent about maintenance. He was always fixing stuff. Since the accident, I've done my best to take care of everything, but it's hard when it's just me. It's a small house on a small lot but it's still a lot to keep up, especially when you're only 21 years old and know almost nothing about home maintenance.

"I can't wait to get started." Nash nods toward the house. "As you can tell it needs a lot of work."

"Did someone hire you to do it?"

"No. I own it."

My brows rise. "You actually paid money for that?"

He laughs. A deep, easy laugh. "Come on. It's not that bad."

"It looks like it's falling apart."

"The structure's fine. It's just been neglected. I'll get it back to how it used to be."

"I think you're crazy." I blurt it out, then cover my mouth. "I'm sorry. That was rude."

He smiles. "Don't worry about it. Most people would agree with you. The house does look pretty bad. But I have a way of seeing things that other people can't. To me, it's not a crumbling old house. It's a house waiting to be saved. Waiting for someone to step in and take care of it. Breathe some life into it again." He reaches in his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. "That's what I do. Home renovation and construction, although we're starting to expand beyond just residential properties."

The card reads, Wheeler Construction and Renovation. Your Best Choice for Building and Remodeling.

"You own a company?"

"Sort of. My dad owns it and my brothers and I work for him, but when he retires, we'll take it over. Oh, and to answer your earlier question, I didn't buy the house. I inherited it."

"You're related to Mr. Freeson?"

"I'm his grandson."

"I didn't know he had any family. He never had any visitors."

"I didn't know he was my grandfather until after he died. He was my mom's father but I never knew him because I never knew my mom. She took off right after I was born and I haven't heard from her since. Anyway, one day I got a call from a lawyer telling me I owned this house. My grandfather also left behind some money so I'm using that to pay for the renovations."

"He only left it to you and not your brothers?"

"My brothers aren't related to him. They're half brothers. After my mom took off, my dad got married and had three more boys."

"So how long will you be here?"

"Just long enough to fix up the house. I'm hoping to finish up by September."

"And then what?"

"I'll put it on the market. Try to sell it." He pauses. "Well, I should let you get back to whatever you were doing. You gonna be okay?"

He smiles again. That same wide smile he gave me earlier that causes creases to form around his eyes. He has beautiful eyes. I wish I had blue eyes like that. Instead I got boring brown to match my boring brown hair.

"Callie?" I hear his voice and realize I'm staring at him, not saying anything.

"Yeah." I pretend to swat a fly away, hoping maybe he'll think I was staring at a fly and not him. "I'm fine."

"You didn't hit your head when you fell, did you?" He holds my chin as his eyes dart all around my face, looking for signs of injury. I must've really seemed out of it just now if he thinks I have a head injury.

I back away. "I didn't hit my head. I'm fine. I just felt a little dizzy for a moment. It's hot and I didn't drink enough water this morning."

"I'll get you some."

Before I can tell him no, he takes off for my kitchen. I hear glasses clinking, then the sink running. I just met this guy and he walks around like he owns the place. And yet, it feels kind of nice to have someone here. To not be alone. I'm always alone in this house. I hate being alone.

"Here." He hands me the glass and sits next to me. "I'll stay a few minutes. Make sure you're okay."

"Just go. You don't have to stay."

"Maybe I want to." He looks around. "It's a hell of a lot better than my place."

"I guess that's true." I take a sip of water.

"How's the knee feel?"

"Better. I'll keep it elevated until I leave for work. It'll be fine."

"Where do you work?"

"At the bakery downtown. It's also a coffee shop."

"What's it called?"

"Lou's."

"That's it? Just Lou's?"

"Yeah. He's not very creative with names but he's a good baker. People even come from other towns just to buy his stuff."

"Are you a waitress there?"

"No. I work in the kitchen."

"Sounds like a decent summer job."

It's not a summer job. It's a year round job that I've had for the past ten months. Lou knew my family and felt bad when they died so offered me a job. He wanted a full-time person but since I wasn't doing so well when he hired me, he only made me work five hours a day, which includes my half-hour lunch break. And I still work those same hours. Just five hours a day, five days a week.

"I'll have to stop by sometime. I have a weakness for pastries, especially donuts. And I like those flaky things with the fruit center. I don't know what they're called."

"Danishes. We make all kinds. Blueberry, raspberry, lemon. They usually sell out by ten."

"Then I'll have to get there early. What time do they open?"

"Six. And we close at two. It's a breakfast and lunch place."

"It's already nine. So when do you work?"

"Ten to three. From two to three I help him close and clean up."

Why am I telling him all this? Probably because I'm so desperate to talk to someone. I'm always here by myself, and when I'm at work I stay in the kitchen, so don't talk much there either.

His cell phone rings and he pulls it from his pocket and answers it. "Yeah?...Okay...Can I call you back in a minute?" He hangs up.

"You should go," I say.

"Yeah, I've gotta see what kind of mess I've got going on over there."

"You've never been in the house?"

"Just once, right after I found out it was mine. But I didn't stay long so I didn't get a good look at it." He smiles. "It was nice meeting you. Sorry again for the truck. I'd like to say it won't happen again but unfortunately it will."

"At least I'll know what that sound is now."

He walks to the door. "If you need anything, my number's on that card I gave you. Call me anytime."

"Okay. Bye," I say, but he's already gone.

Nash. That's a weird name. He's kind of a weird guy. Inviting himself into my house. Walking around like he owns the place. Fixing my knee after just meeting me. That's weird.

What am I saying? I'm the weird one. Crazy is more like it. Sometimes I can barely get through the day without falling apart. It's been this way for three hundred and eighty-five days and I'm starting to think it'll never get better. That I'll be this way forever.

***

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