Present Day…

The storms subsided by morning. I awoke feeling groggy, thoughts jumbled, warm and relaxed in a tumble of bedsheets. Golden sunshine beamed through the bedroom window. I stretched lazily. A pleasant aching in my joints brought the events of the previous evening rushing back. I sat up and clutched the sheet to cover my bare breasts.

“Morning.” Owen came out of the bathroom, wearing a towel around his hips and a rare grin. “Sleep well?”

“Yes.” Heat scalded my cheeks at the memory of all the things we’d done to each other. “Did you?”

“Like a baby.” The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he sat on the edge of the bed. His beautiful eyes caught mine, and I read uncertainty in their depths.

“It’s Saturday,” I said, seeking to fill the quiet between us.

“Yeah?” A furrow formed between his brow. “I suppose you’ve got things to do. I’ll get out of here.”

“Wait.” I put a hand over his. The warmth of his skin flowed into my arm. “I was going to hit the flea markets in Mathis County. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I don’t know.” I could feel him pulling away from me emotionally, one inch at a time. He looked down at the floor where his bare feet rested on the hardwood.

We’d been too busy fucking to talk, and afterward, we’d been too exhausted for words. Now, all I could think was that I couldn’t bear to see him leave. I just wanted to pretend we were normal people living normal lives for a while longer.

“I don’t want you to go yet.” The sheets rustled beneath me. I cupped his face in my hands and pressed a light kiss to his mouth. The stubble on his jaw tickled my palms. “Let’s enjoy each other for a while longer, without worrying about murder and motives and the past.”

He studied my face. The furrow between his brows deepened. I could feel the thoughts churning in his brain. A sliver of fear chilled my blood. What if he rejected me again? He had every right to walk away. It would probably be the best decision for both us, but I prayed that he’d give us a chance.

“Stella?” Michael’s voice carried up the stairs. Apparently, Owen and I had left the door unlocked in the wake of our passion. So much for keeping away the burglars. Guilt followed swiftly on the heels of my panic. Michael hadn’t called since our argument, and I’d been too busy with the house, the robbery, and Owen to think about him. Even though we hadn’t defined our relationship, I didn’t want to leave things unsettled between us.

Owen’s gaze met mine. “You want me to talk to him?”

“No. Stay here. I’ll go.” I went to the door and opened it a crack. “I’ll be down in a second, Michael.” With shaking hands, I dragged my fingers through the rat’s nest of my hair, pulled on some clothes, and ran downstairs.

Michael stood at the kitchen window. He had his hands in the pockets of his khaki trousers and his back to me. I studied the sleek lines of his immaculate haircut and drew in a deep breath. By the tilt of his head, he knew I was behind him, but he didn’t say anything for at least four heartbeats. When he finally spoke, his words sliced into my chest. “Who is he?”

“Who?” The question caught me off guard. I cleared my throat, stalling for time to collect my answer.

“Come on, Stella. There’s a truck in your driveway, a pile of clothes on the floor, and a condom wrapper. The evidence is overwhelming.” The amount of pain in his voice squeezed my lungs until I couldn’t breathe.

“Owen.” There was no point in lying to him, but my heart broke at the callous delivery.

His shoulders tensed. “Is he the reason you moved back here?”

“No.” I took a step toward him then stopped. “I didn’t know he was here.”

“But you lied about knowing him, didn’t you?”

My fingers clenched into fists until my nails cut half-moons into my palms. I drew in another deep breath, knowing how much my words were going to hurt him. “Yes. I lied. He was my boyfriend when I lived here. We never got a chance to say goodbye to each other. It was a shock to see him again. Last night—one thing led to another and—”

“I see.” Michael held up his hand to stop me. His dark head bowed. When he turned to face me, his voice shook with anger. “I came here because I was worried about you, because I hated the way we ended our last conversation, because I care about you, Stella. And all the time you were fucking that criminal.”

“It’s not like that.” But it was exactly like that. I bowed my head, tears of regret stinging the backs of my eyelids.

“Do you have feelings for him?” When I didn’t answer, he groaned and ruffled his hair. “Have there been others?”

“No. Michael. Never.” I inched toward him, but he threw up a hand to keep me at a distance.

“Once a cheater, always a cheater.” Disgust made his voice unrecognizable. The ache in my chest continued to grow, like a bubble about to burst.

“I think you need to go before one of us says something we both regret.” I kept my voice as quiet and even as I could muster when every fiber in my body wanted to defend Owen. “You’re upset, and I get that. But we never had any kind of agreement. You wanted casual, and that’s what you got.”

“I thought things might change when you moved here. I was hoping we’d have a chance to make things more permanent between us.”

“You never said anything. How was I supposed to know how you felt?”

In two strides, he returned to the door, one hand on the door knob. Once there, he faced me for the first time since his arrival. I saw my reflection in the kitchen window—crazy hair, flushed cheeks, and guilty expression. “Just so you know, Lisa isn’t a friend. We’ve been fucking for over a year.” With those words, he walked out the door, leaving it wide open. I pressed my lips together, biting back bitter words, knowing that I had no grounds for retaliation. His confession should have hurt more. Instead, I felt…relieved.

“He only said that because he’s pissed.” Owen’s voice sent a shiver—the good kind—up my back. He’d been balanced on the bottom step, still wearing his towel. “Not that I blame him.”

“How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough. I thought you might need backup.” He searched my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” A weight lifted from my shoulders, lessening some of the guilt. Although the situation had been unpleasant, I didn’t want to string out a dead-end relationship. Michael deserved honesty. “But I hated hurting him like that. He’s a good person.”

“I have a feeling he’ll get over it,” Owen replied, lifting one of his eyebrows. He rubbed a hand over his belly. The sight of his half-nakedness in my kitchen eased the sting of Michael’s visit. Owen trailed a fingertip along my collarbone. I sighed, wondering if morning sex was out of the question. I uncurled his fingers from the towel. It whispered to the floor. One corner of his lips twitched.

“Let’s go upstairs.” I threaded my fingers through his and, for one fleeting moment, took control of my future.

We drove Owen’s truck to the flea market. Papers and tools littered the inside. It smelled of leather, maleness, and Owen. I sat beside him, awkward and exhilarated, feeling like the teenaged girl I’d once been. Every now and then, I stole a peek at his profile, the hardness of his jawline, the way his fingers clenched around the steering wheel. The space between my legs ached from the relentless way he’d made love to me.

“You okay?” he asked. I liked the way he constantly checked on me. No one had ever done that before. His sideways glance started the butterflies in my stomach. I remembered this feeling, the crazy fucked-up euphoria of being with him. I wanted it to never end.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” But nothing could have been further from the truth. I’d never be fine again. He’d twisted my world into a knot of uncertainty, one that I had no idea how to unravel.

The storms had moved through and left bright sunshine in their wake. We rode in silence with the windows down, through miles and miles of endless cornfields. Country music played on the radio. Owen hummed under his breath. I tried to concentrate on living in the moment, to enjoy the earthy scent left by the rain, and the rush of wind through my hair. I still had questions, but I didn’t want to ruin the pleasant afterglow of our night together. In my experience, happiness was a fleeting gift to be enjoyed in the moment, and I wasn’t going to squander it.

At the flea market, we wandered through rows of booths, sometimes brushing shoulders, sending pleasant tingles down my arm. I found the chaos, the noise, and the clutter charming and regretted leaving my camera at the house. Textures and colors teased my artistic sensibilities. In my head, I snapped photos with my phone and vowed to return another day with the proper equipment. Owen hovered at my side, straying occasionally to peruse a set of tools or an interesting oddity. Every time our eyes met, I grinned like an idiot. I liked having him beside me, knowing he was watching over me. It felt like we’d travelled back to the time before the incident, when we’d been two kids in love.

“Hey, look at this.” Owen pointed to a Victorian dresser on legs. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the item. “This would make a great bathroom vanity. I could cut a hole in the top for the sink and run the plumbing through the back. It would like nice in your downstairs bathroom.”

“You think?” I tried to concentrate on the dresser, but the glide of his fingers between mine proved too distracting. “Okay.”

He waved to the guy running the booth. “How much do you want for this?”

An unfamiliar hand touched my arm. I turned to see Velma, the reporter, beaming at me. She had a camera slung around her neck and a notepad tucked beneath her arm. “Hey, Stella. How are you?”

“Um, I’m fine. Thanks.” My gaze went automatically to Owen. Her attention followed mine. I bit my lower lip and prayed that he wouldn’t return before I got rid of her.

“I’m here doing a little freelance work, following your example.” She lifted the camera and smirked.

“That’s a great way to get your foot in the door,” I said. The scent of barbecue hovered in the air. People pushed and flowed around us. The crowd seemed to be closing in on me. I ran a finger around the collar of my T-shirt. “Well, it was nice to see you again.”

She stepped in front of me, still smiling. “Are you with Owen? I mean, are you guys together?”

My heart skipped a beat. She knew his name. I blinked, trying to formulate the correct answer, and decided to go with the truth. “Yeah, he’s helping me out today.”

“I’ve been asking around about him. He’s got a fascinating story. Hot ex-con goes straight. Do you think he’d let me interview him?”

“No. He’s very private.” A cold knot of dread tightened in the pit of my stomach. “Well, I’d better let you get back to your work.”

“See you around.” Her gaze burned into my back. I kept my shoulders straight and stared unseeingly at the table of garden tools in front of me.

“Who was that?” Owen asked. I grabbed his arm and turned him toward the table.

“Don’t look. She’s a journalist, and she keeps asking about you.” I picked up a hand spade, weighing it in my palm. “Something about her rubs me the wrong way.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Am I? A couple of days ago, you were concerned about people talking, and now you’re not?” The lady next to me raised her eyebrows. I lowered my voice and pulled him out of the stream of people.

“I was only worried because I didn’t want people to judge you based on my history.” The gentle stroke of his hand along the side of my face soothed my anxiety. The crease between his eyebrows deepened. “But if you’re uncomfortable, maybe we should go.”

Owen unloaded the furniture while I fixed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We ate them on the back porch, facing the river. We chatted about unimportant things like television and books. The occasional flash of his smile reminded me of how good things had been between us. During the comfortable silences between topics, I studied the changing landscape. In the distance, the metal roof of the covered bridge reflected the orange glow of the setting sun.

When he’d eaten two sandwiches, he dusted the bread crumbs from his hands and stood. “I should probably get going.”

A nervous tremor shook my hands. The same nagging questions continued to play on a loop through my head. What happened to Chris? Why was Owen so damn determined to bury the truth? I’d wanted to spend the day ignoring the past, but if we were going to move forward, we had to have this discussion.

“I’m not very good at talking about my feelings. You know that.” The words came slowly, sticking to my tongue. “But I loved you, Owen. More than anything. I need to know what happened that night. We have to talk about it.”

His gaze darkened. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared down at me. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, but my insides began to quake. A mosquito buzzed near my ear. I waved it away, impatient to move forward from the pain of this moment. The somber glint in his eyes heightened my anxiety. “Maybe you need to tell me what happened.”

“What do you mean?” Panic squeezed my body.

“Your knife. The river. Chris turning up dead. What really happened, Stella? Are you protecting Lanie?”

“No. I swear.” I took his hand in mine and squeezed.

“They found your knife at the scene. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t know how it got there, but it wasn’t me. I was with you. You know that.” The blood drained from my body and pooled in my fingertips leaving me cold. My knife had been carefully hidden. The only person who knew its location was Lanie. Lanie. I pushed aside the thought for later inspection, refusing to accept the possibility, and kept my focus on Owen. “All this time—you thought it was one of us? And you never said anything?”

Owen sank onto the porch step and rested his head in his hands. “I ran through everything that happened that night in my mind, day after day, night after night, trying to figure it out. What was I supposed to think? It was your knife. He was found a few miles from your house.”

“The detectives told me that you confessed. They said it was an open-and-shut case. Why would you admit to something you didn’t do?”

He took my hands into his and folded my fingers into his palms. “Stella, they were going to pin it on you. They had plenty of evidence. Your knife, your fingerprints, a piece of your shirt. You would have been charged with murder. They would have sent you away for life.” The pain of the days before his sentencing came rushing back to me. “I signed a plea deal. Ten years for voluntary manslaughter, no trial, and you got to walk away.”

It had been an election year. The media and the citizens of Corbett had been ecstatic to have the crime solved in such rapid time. The sheriff and district attorney had been re-elected. Owen’s confession had tied everything up in a neat bow for the prosecution. The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place. The peanut butter and jelly curdled in my stomach. His words confirmed my growing suspicions. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I had to consider Lanie as a suspect. The thought broke my heart. How could she keep something like that a secret for eighteen years?

“I never thought you could do something like that,” I said, my voice flat and mechanical. “I begged them to let me talk to you, but everyone told me to shut up and let it go. Marianne died that day, and the shock of everything gave Stan a heart attack. A social services lady took us straight from the police station to the children’s home in Indianapolis.” Remembering made my head hurt. The breath left my body in an ugly gasp. I pressed a hand to my mouth and fought away the chill of understanding.

The enormity of what Owen had done was more than I could process. He’d taken the fall in order to save me. Tears blurred his image. I reached for him, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him to me. His muscular arms wrapped around my shoulders. I buried my face in his chest and cried. Sobs wracked my body. The world tilted when he scooped me off the steps and carried me upstairs.

He held me until I cried myself out. After the waterworks ended, he stroked my hair and pressed kisses to my forehead. Words froze in my throat. I had no idea how to undo the terrible wrong that had been done to him. When I found myself again, I sat up. “I’ll go to the police in the morning. I’ll tell them everything. We can clear your name.”

“No. You won’t.” He lowered his face to mine, eyes stormy. “It’s done. Over with. I don’t need vindicated.” His fingertips stroked over my cheek. “If you go to them, you’ll only incriminate yourself.”

Or I might incriminate Lanie. Loyalty to Owen warred with the need to protect my little sister. The injustice of the situation made my guts churn. I couldn’t think about Lanie now. Owen consumed me. I rained kisses over his face, knowing it was a small consolation for the lost years of his life. “You’re a fool, Owen Henry. What you did—it doesn’t make sense. You gave up everything to save me and left nothing for yourself.”

“It makes perfect sense to me. Watching you succeed was more than enough payment.” His deep voice rumbled through his chest. “Every time I saw one of your photographs, I knew it was worth it.”

“But you hated me,” I said in a small voice and curled into his side.

“It’s complicated.” His chest lifted and fell in a heavy sigh. “The only way I could get over you was to hate you.”

“Do you hate me now?” I braced myself for the answer, knowing it could destroy me.

“No.” His words gave me new confidence. My heart skipped a beat when his hand moved to my belly, smoothing over my shirt before gliding under the fabric. His calloused palm slid over my bare skin, pushed aside the band of my bra, and cupped my breast. The touch of his fingers on my nipple unleashed a torrent of need.

“Owen. This. Us. It’s crazy.” A light pinch stung my nipple. I hissed through my teeth at the lightning zap of pleasure. “How can you ever forgive me for doubting you?” How could I ever forgive myself? I had no idea how to make things right again, but I’d spend the rest of my life trying if he let me.

“Stella, don’t you get it?” With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, he unsnapped my jeans and pulled down the zipper. I lifted my hips to help him pull down my pants and underwear. His fingers slipped between my bare thighs. “I still love you. I loved you then, and I love you now. And I’m pretty sure I’ll love you a hundred years from now. What I feel for you has nothing to do with the passage of time.”

Not loved me, in the past tense. Love. My brain tried to wrap around his words, but it was hard to concentrate with his hand stroking me. His knee parted my legs as he moved on top of me. I tugged down his jeans and boxers. We explored each other, slowly and gently, savoring the subtle glide of flesh against flesh. The heat of his skin warmed me. Tomorrow, I’d have to face the many truths he’d revealed, but for tonight, I wanted to show him how much I appreciated his sacrifice.

I shifted his weight, rolling us over so I could straddle his hips. Looking into his beautiful eyes, I said, “None of this makes sense to me, but I feel the same about you today as I did eighteen years ago.”

“You don’t have to say that.” He lowered his thick eyelashes, shielding his gaze. “I don’t need you to love me back.”

His selflessness filled me with warmth. Not only was he beautiful, but he’d managed to preserve his best qualities throughout adversity and disadvantage. I pressed a finger to his lips which he promptly sucked into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue pebbled my skin with goosebumps. “I don’t care that it’s been eighteen years or that we’re different people.” Lifting his pelvis, he slid inside me. We groaned at the delicious friction. “Can two people still love each other after so much time apart?”

One of his hands cupped the back of my neck and drew my lips down to his. “Love doesn’t have rules. We can make our own.”