“The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.”

---

I kept a close eye on Shelly for the rest of the day and the next. If our encounter in the supply closet had overwhelmed her, I saw no sign of it. She was as she’d always been—cool, focused, aloof.

Except when our eyes met.

She’d blush and I’d give her a small smile. Then she would look away, looking like she was fighting a smile of her own.

Nevertheless, throughout Tuesday, I was distracted and tense, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, for the unexpected emergency, for something to get in our way and spoil our plans. Again.

Surprisingly, nothing did.

We left the shop at 7:00 PM and arrived at Daisy’s Nut House just after 7:15. Now that we’d finally made it, I relaxed.

Wanting her skin against mine, I reached for her hand as we walked into the restaurant. I’d been craving the feel of her, but hadn’t acted on the impulse during work hours. Our unexpected interlude inside the supply closet Monday morning notwithstanding, keeping a professional distance at work seemed like a good idea.

What if things didn’t work out between us? The thought was unsettling, but I couldn’t discount the possibility. Shelly feeling uncomfortable on my account at her place of employment was just plain unacceptable.

But now, away from work, now that I had her all to myself, I wanted to know everything about her. And I wanted to know she trusted me enough to tell me. That was my plan for tonight.

Next week, assuming things continued going well, I’d touch on the future, on

exclusivity and what I wanted.

But not tonight.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Beau. This is the just first date and she ain’t going anywhere.

“Do they serve pancakes here?”

I tugged her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “Yes. They have several kinds of pancakes.”

“I’m going to order pancakes.” She looked determined, like I might try to talk her out of ordering pancakes.

“You should.” Guiding her through the door, I paused for a second to search for Daisy.

Unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be seen. Daisy Payton had been one of my momma’s best friends and Daisy’s daddy owned the mill where Billy worked. The last name of Payton carried so much clout in Tennessee, Daisy’s husband Trevor had taken it when they married.

But Daisy was an impressive businesswoman in her own right, having franchised Daisy’s Nut House some years ago.

Spotting Beverly, one of the staff servers, I pointed toward a booth at the back and she nodded her head in understanding. It was smaller than the other tables, meant for two, and isolated. Its placement would allow us to have conversations without being overheard or easily spotted.

Everyone in this town knew me and I was friendly with just about all of them. Though the crowd inside the diner was sparse, I guided Shelly to one side of the booth, releasing her hand, then took the seat facing away from the entrance and the rest of the restaurant for myself. I didn’t want our date to be interrupted by well-meaning neighbors.

I picked up the menu, scanning its contents, even though I knew it by heart. “I’m probably going to get the hamburger, but I can’t decide if I want French fries or tater tots.”

“Tater tots with a hamburger?”

“Yeah. Have you ever tried them?”

“Yes. I love them.”

Of course she does, because she’s awesome.

“Do you want to get some to share?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“They don’t go with pancakes.”

“Says who?”

Shelly blinked once, and very slowly. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as a gas engine full of diesel.”

Her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed, and once again I was faced with an almost-smile. That was seven almost-smiles in one day. But who’s counting?

“Hey, what can I get you?”

Reluctantly, I glanced away from Shelly to our server. I had a small shock because instead of Beverly, it was Daisy’s daughter Simone.

“Simone?”

“Hey, Beauford. How’s it hanging?” She grinned at me, placing her hand on the back of the booth.

“What are you doing here?” Not even thinking about it, I skootched out of the booth and gave the girl a big hug.

She laughed, squeezing me back, then broke the embrace and shook her head at me. “You look exactly the same.”

I noted her accent was diluted, she almost sounded like a Yankee. But that made sense based on where she’d gone to college—Washington, DC I remembered hearing. As I leaned away I took note, Simone did not look exactly the same.

For one thing, her hair was different. Growing up, her momma had kept it in long strands of tight braids. But now she had it unbound, in a curly halo around her pretty face.

Also, she no longer looked like a girl. She looked like a woman. And that thought had me wondering if Roscoe knew she was in town.

“Simone, this is Shelly Sullivan, she works with us down at the shop. Shelly, this is Simone. Daisy’s daughter and a real pain in the ass.” I turned to Shelly, finding her watching us with interest.

Simone hit my stomach with the back of her hand, drawing my attention just in time for me to spot her mock-aggravated look.

“Nice to meet you, Shelly.” Simone gave Shelly a little wave and a full smile. “What did Beauford do to trick you into going out with him? Hide your keys?”

“He kissed me.”

I pressed my lips together, giving myself a moment to inspect the table before glancing at Simone.

Her mouth had dropped open, likely at Shelly’s candor, but then she laughed. “I like her.”

I grinned at Simone and then at Shelly who was still inspecting us with curiosity. “Me too.”

At that, Shelly’s almost smile became a true one and my heart skipped five beats, maybe more. Truth is, I lost count. I was momentarily stunned by the sight of her beaming up at me and missed half of what Simone said next.

“. . . with the menu? Or do you know what you want?”

“Pardon?” I asked, pulling my attention away from Shelly’s grin with great reluctance. Simone was giving me a sideways look.

“I said, do you need a moment with the menu or do you know what you want?”

“He wants a hamburger with cheddar cheese, tomato, lettuce, pickles, onions, but no mayo, and a side of tater tots. I’ll have the buttermilk pancakes, banana on the side—not sliced, not peeled—butter on the side, no powdered sugar,” Shelly answered for both of us, turning her soft smile to Simone.

“Sure thing.” Simone had whipped out a notepad and wrote down our order. “Anything to drink?”

“Water for me, no ice, no lemon. Strawberry shake with no whip, Beau?” Shelly looked to me.

I examined her, this woman who ordered for me with such thorough knowledge of my preferences. “Yeah, strawberry shake.”

“Sounds good, I’ll be back with your drinks.” Simone nodded once, turned on her heal, and left us.

Staring at Shelly, I took my seat in the booth and waited expectantly. “Well?”

“What?”

“How did you know how I like my hamburgers?”

“It’s what you always order from here.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

I glared at her in mock suspicion. “Are you planning to order for me every time we go out?”

She shrugged, and it was the first time I’d seen her make such a careless gesture. “Only if I know what you want.”

“You like ordering for people?”

“No.”

“So just me?”

“Yes.” Her smile returned, smaller than before but just as genuine and stunning.

It occurred to me in that moment, transfixed by her exquisite smile, that Shelly likely didn’t know how to be disingenuous. She may have hidden behind her defenses, but whenever I flat-out asked her a question she always answered with honesty—sometimes brutal, but always real.

The thought brought me comfort, made me like her even more. I would never need to guess with this woman, not if I had the courage to ask.

Honesty, what a novel idea.

Shelly met my gaze, but I must’ve been staring for a while because eventually she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, lifting her chin toward the diner counter. “She seems nice.”

“Who? Simone?”

Shelly nodded, rearranging the condiments so the salt was to the left of the pepper and the mustard and ketchup were perfectly aligned.

I grinned, hoping she would return it. “Like I said, she’s a pain in the ass.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Growing up, Simone and Roscoe—my youngest brother, I don’t think you’ve met him yet—were best friends. She was always over at our house, and that’s how I know.”

But something had happened their freshman or sophomore year of high school and they’d stopped talking. I’d missed having Simone around after their spat. She baked darn good cookies, with macadamia nuts and white chocolate. Plus she was smart, knew stuff and wasn’t stingy about sharing knowledge—unlike my brother Cletus.

“Why was she a pain?”

“Oh jeez, let me see.” I glanced at the ceiling, searching my memories. “She and Roscoe had this monopoly game going for years; they had to invent new currency that went up to millions of dollars and instead of hotels, they had industrial complexes. I think Roscoe learned this from Ashley, ’cause she had a game going with Jackson James for years. So, none of us could ever play Monopoly or touch the board, or else Simone would get us.”

“Get you how?”

“She replaced our toothpaste with caulk.”

Shelly’s lips parted and her eyes went wide. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It was.” I laughed, scratching my cheek. “One time she and Roscoe filled our—Duane’s and my—shoes with Vaseline.”

“Why?”

“Because we touched their Monopoly game. She was a huge prankster.”

Shelly’s gaze dropped to the table and one side of her mouth hitched, her eyes losing focus. I got the sense she was remembering something from her own childhood.

“Hey.” I tapped her shin with my foot, bringing her attention back to me. “What are you thinking about?”

Her smirk still in place, she leaned forward like she was about to confess something big. “One time, I welded my older brother’s driver’s side door shut.”

I was surprised, but grinned at her sneakiness. “What did Quinn do?”

She stared at me for several seconds, and most of her good mood seemed to dissolve. “Not Quinn, he is younger. My older brother was Desmond. Quinn and Janie named their son after him. It’s also my dad’s name.”

I blinked at her use of the word was, as in past tense, and searched her gaze. She wasn’t icicle Shelly again, but something about her posture and the brittle look in her eyes made me want to reach out to her.

“My brother died.” She confirmed my unasked question, her tone flat as the brittleness turned hard.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, her attention moving to some spot over my shoulder. “Happened a long time ago.”

Deciding to assuage my curiosity, I asked, “What did your brother want? Wednesday, when he came by.”

Shelly pulled a napkin from the metal dispenser and placed it flat on the table in front of her. “Assurances.”

“Like?”

“Like, he wanted to make sure I was okay, living here. He worries more than he should about me.”

Her tone and the frustration in her expression implied a different meaning to her words, something like, He worries more than I deserve.

“He’s your brother, of course he’s going to worry.”

“He should be focusing on his family.”

“You are his family.”

She folded the napkin in half. “You know what I mean.”

“Until Quinn said something last week, I didn’t know you had a nephew. Congratulations.”

“I haven’t met him.”

“Yet.”

Shelly’s eyes cut back to mine, held. “Yet,” she agreed, sounding determined.

“Does your brother know why you don’t touch people?”

She swallowed, considering me for a second before shaking her head. “He knows I’m in therapy here, in Tennessee. We’ve corresponded via mail and he still manages my commissions, so I wrote him a letter and told him that I was in therapy But Quinn doesn’t know my diagnosis, we haven’t discussed it.”

Commissions?

“Commissions?”

“Yes. He’s always handled my contracts.” Shelly looked like she was going to explain further, but was interrupted by Beverly dropping off a whole banana and a side dish of butter.

Shelly picked up her banana, cut off the very top and the very bottom with her butter knife, then meticulously peeled it, one panel at a time. She set the peels to the side, one on top of the other, then sliced into the banana, cutting it at precise intervals and arranging the circles in a spiral design on her side plate.

I was so mesmerized by her meticulous banana peeling and cutting ritual that I forgot what we were talking about.

She considered the peeled fruit as though considering a weighty manner, saying, “He knows I cut myself. He was the first to find out. I think that’s why he worries.”

I blinked away from the intricate design of her banana slices and brought her back into focus. “Cutting your wrists is a good reason for a brother to worry.”

“I don’t want to die. Cutting is not about that. It has a stigma, an association with suicide that isn’t always valid, and it confuses people.” Her forehead wrinkled with clear consternation. “I want to live, I’ve always wanted to live. That is why I’m here.”

“I believe you.”

If she said so, then I believed her.

And for the record, thank God.

“Good.” She seemed to breathe easier after the words left my mouth, her attention returning to the napkin. “He checked my arms, and my legs, last week.”

“Your legs?” I sat up straighter. “Did you used to—”

“No. But he wanted to be certain. It’s why he let me stay, because I haven’t been cutting.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, unable to imagine a world where anyone let Shelly Sullivan do anything.

She scratched the back of her neck, her eyes darting to me and then away. “This is a horrible first date conversation. Sorry I am so depressing.”

“It’s not depressing and I don’t mind. I want to know about you.”

“But everything out of my mouth is about self-harm, overprotective brothers, fractured relationships, and death.”

The way she said this made me smile. And then she rolled her eyes at herself and my smile stretched into a grin.

“I promise, I’m not morbid. I have hobbies.”

Giving her a disarming grin, I decided a change of subject was in order. “So, about these hobbies . . .”

“I don’t knit, if that’s what you were going to ask. My sister-in-law crochets. I would like to learn how to do that.”

“I wasn’t, but good to know. I was going to ask if you like getting dressed up, going out, and doing things.”

“You mean other than to get pancakes?”

“I was thinking more like going to a wedding.”

She inspected me, like I’d confused her. “Going to weddings is not a hobby of mine.”

She sounded so serious I had to suppress a laugh. “No, honey. Sorry. That was my roundabout way of inviting you to go with me to Jethro and Sienna’s wedding.”

“Oh.” She sat straighter as her eyes moved up and to the side. “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, I don’t do well in crowds.”

“I’ll protect you.” I tried to sound teasing.

“I’m not the one who needs protecting.” Her gaze came back to mine. “Won’t you be a groomsman?”

“Ah, yes.” I hadn’t thought of that. She’d be on her own, in a crowd, trying not to accidentally touch people.

“Maybe I could go to the reception?” she offered.

“Oh yeah. Sure. Think about it. No need to decide now. There’s no pressure.”

Shelly nodded and how her brow furrowed made me uneasy. She seemed to be frustrated with herself, or maybe growing frustrated with the turn of our date.

This woman had so many layers, and I wanted to know them all. I could be patient. I didn’t want to push her away by coming on too strong.

And yet, she’d been so open with me. Maybe she needed to know I could be equally open with her, so I changed direction a little. Drawing in a large breath, I studied the uncertainty and embarrassment plaguing her features, and decided something.

“My mother died last year.”

She flinched back a fraction of an inch, but much of her frustration melted away. “How?”

“Cancer. She was forty-seven.” . . . I think.

“That’s very young.” The embarrassment and uncertainty melted from her features, leaving only concern.

“It was, it is.” I moved my gaze to the table, thinking back on her last birthday and realizing I couldn’t remember if she’d turned forty-seven or forty-six.

“You miss her.”

“Yes, I do.”

We were quiet for a time and Shelly placed her hand on the table, her fingers just a half inch from mine. Glancing at her, her expression was one of frustration as she stared at my hand. Now that I knew her better, I could see desire—to comfort me, to touch me—was written all over her face.

I covered her hand and watched as she turned hers palm up, entwining our fingers and giving mine a squeeze. She also released a sigh.

“You miss Desmond?”

She nodded, her attention still on our hands. “He was the best person.”

“He’s the best? What about Quinn?”

Shelly visibly hesitated and seemed to be debating how to respond. “He was and is also the best person, but very different than Desmond.”

“How so?”

“Like you and your twin.”

“You mean Desmond was handsome and charming, and Quinn is boring and surly?”

Shelly pressed her lips together like she was fighting another grin and lifted her gaze to mine. “Something like that.”

“What are your parents like?”

Her eyes fell away. “They are also the best.”

“You’re very close?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s my fault.” Wrinkles appeared on her forehead and she withdrew her hand. “I’ve never been able to be what they deserve.”

Now that was a heartbreaking statement.

“They said that?”

She shook her head. “I’m not stupid. I know what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“Exhausting.” She rubbed her forehead. “I exhaust myself. Or, I used to. I feel like I’m much better now, less . . .”

I studied her. “Because of your disorder?”

“I’m the only person responsible for my actions and decisions.” She lifted her chin but still didn’t lift her eyes. The way she said the words, it was like she was repeating a mantra, and that mantra was important to her.

On the one hand, I agreed with her—for obvious reasons. Personal responsibility was a big deal to me given the fact that I grew up with an abusive father who blamed everyone and everything else but himself for his actions.

If you’d listened the first time, I wouldn’t have beat you.

If you’d stayed out of my chair, I wouldn’t have locked you in the shed for two days.

If you’d had my dinner ready on time, you wouldn’t have that black eye.

People who thought initiating violence was ever justified weren’t people I wanted to know.

On the other hand, Shelly’s disorder meant she was a victim of her own mind. She didn’t want to be rude, to be cold, to be exhausting.

But maybe, more than that, she doesn’t want to be a victim.

I decided it was best to neither agree nor disagree. Stepping carefully, talking people out of a mood was a specialty of mine. I’d perfected it over the last twenty-four years, being Duane Winston’s even-tempered twin. I’d spent my life translating for my brother in an effort to keep us both out of trouble.

So I said, “And recently, you’ve been making some great decisions.”

That brought her eyes back to me. Since I had her attention, I made the most of the opportunity, unleashing as much charm as I could manage with an evocative grin.

Now she did smile. I had to blink against the blinding brilliance of it. Held transfixed, I knew I could easily grow addicted to seeing this woman smile.

“An example being?”

I lowered my gaze suggestively. “Following me into the supply closet.”

When I brought my eyes back to Shelly’s, she was watching me with that hazy expression. “You’re an excellent distraction, Beau.”

“How so?”

“Sometimes, when I look at you, all my thoughts, all the plates I’m spinning in my head, they stop. And for a few seconds, it’s peaceful. You make me witless.”

I shrugged, twisting my lips to the side so I wouldn’t laugh at the irony of her statement. “I have that effect on people.”

“Yes, you do.”

That did make me laugh. “I was joking.”

“Then it was a bad joke.” She leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table, giving me the impression she wanted me to understand something important. “I don’t want to creep you out, but I’ve been watching you for over a month. Everyone likes you.”

“No, not everyone.”

“Name one person.”

“My father.”

Dammit.

The admission erupted before I could catch it. Silence fell between us, thick and heavy, as she inspected me.

“Tell me about your father.”

I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear about him.”

“Please tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re perfect. I want to know why. I want to know what formed you.”

“I’m not perfect.” I glanced over the back of my booth distractedly, looking for Simone. She should have returned with our drinks by now.

“Please.”

I looked to Shelly, who was watching me with an echo of her “please” and I blinked, startled by the desire there. Was that desire to know me? I couldn’t remember a time when someone had ever asked me about my father. For that matter, I couldn’t recall a time when someone had ever asked about me, my childhood, let alone what formed me.

My siblings knew. There was no need to discuss it.

Folks in town knew. Or, if they didn’t know for sure, the rumor mill kept them well fed with hearsay.

No one asked about who I was, what made me me.

Unsettled, I cleared my throat and shifted my attention to the window behind her. The sun was in its last throes of setting, lighting up the sky with soft pinks and purples. Daisy’s sat high on a hill, where the Valley road connected with the Parkway, and the view of the mountains was spectacular. Misty peaks, usually blue, now dotted with the reds, yellows, and oranges of fall, and shrouded in the warm glow of sunset.

I loved this place, this Valley and these mountains, but I’d never known anything else. Shelly spoke of her parents as being the best, and my momma fit that description. What would it have been like to have a father I looked up to? Rather than one whose actions were a roadmap of how not to be, whose behavior was the opposite of what I wanted for myself and those around me, and whose presence I despised.

“Beau.”

“I’m not all that interesting.” I scratched my jaw.

“You’re completely fascinating.”

“No. Stop. Please, no. Don’t flatter me. I hate it when people flatter me. Anything but that.” I kept my tone deadpan, knowing she had difficulty deciphering sarcasm and wanting to make the job easy for her.

She narrowed her eyes in a reprimand, but her mouth tugged to the side with barely suppressed amusement. “You are fascinating. Nothing irritates you.”

I gave her a sly smile. “You irritated me, but—”

“I irritate everyone.”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t irritate me now.”

“Sooner or later I will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I irritate myself.”

“That doesn’t make you special. Everyone—well, everyone with any self-awareness—gets irritated at themselves.”

“When have you been irritated at yourself?”

I squirmed in my seat. “All these questions.”

“What’s wrong with my questions?”

“Nothing is wrong with them, it’s just—”

“Here you go.” Simone appeared abruptly at my elbow, hurriedly plucking dishes from a tray and arranging them haphazardly on the table. My burger, Shelly’s pancakes, tater tots, and two waters.

“Where’s my shake?”

“We don’t have ice cream, we’re out. You’ll get plain old apple pie instead. I’ll bring it over in a minute.” Simone dismissed my irritation with a flick of her wrist, turning a smile to Shelly. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay, just give me a wave if you do.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left.

I glowered my disappointment for a half second.

No shake?

But apple pie.

Okay. That’s cool.

Shrugging off the last of my discontent—and anticipating apple pie for dessert—I reached for the ketchup.

“You’re not upset?”

I glanced at Shelly, pulling the plate of tater tots toward me. “Pardon?”

“About the shake?”

“Nah. I like apple pie fine. Actually, it’s my favorite, so it all worked out.”

“You are ridiculously easygoing.”

I sent her a mock-glare of suspicion. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind about the tater tots? Because it’s too late. They’re mine and you can’t have any.”

“You don’t talk about yourself. You’re not used to it.” She said these words like she’d just solved one of life’s most important puzzles. “You focus on others, you draw them out, and you’re unfailingly accommodating. That’s why everyone likes you.”

“And here I thought it was the magnificence of my beard.”

She ignored me. “People like you because of how you make them feel. That’s why people don’t like me, or it’s one of the main reasons. I don’t know how to do that.”

“I could teach you how.”

Shelly examined me for the space of a heartbeat before saying, “I can practice on you. Let’s start now. Tell me about your father.”

I chuckled at her cleverness. “Wow. I’m impressed. Way to bring the conversation full circle.”

“Do you look like him?”

“You are relentless.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” I took a bite of my hamburger; I couldn’t talk with a mouthful of food.

As she cut into her pancakes, she pummeled me with questions. “Is he here? In Green Valley? Do you speak to him? When is the last time you saw him? What makes you think he doesn’t like you? Why did—”

“Cool your engine, woman,” I said around the bite of food.

“Fine. Where is he?”

I eyed her over a sip of water and decided she was brave. Maybe the bravest person I knew. She’d answered every question I’d asked, even when the answers didn’t paint a pretty picture of her. She didn’t shy away from the ugly parts of her past, or her present.

The least I could do was return the favor.

“In prison,” I responded finally, setting my hamburger down. “For attempted kidnapping and assault.”

She didn’t even blink. “Who did he attempt to kidnap?”

“Ashley.”

“Ashley?”

“My sister.”

Her eyes grew impossibly wide. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

We traded stares for a moment, then she asked, “Is she okay?”

“Ashley?”

“Yes. Was she hurt?”

I hesitated for a moment, and then finally said, “No. He didn’t get a chance.” That time.

Shelly nodded, like this news was a relief and I hid my discomfort by taking a bite of my burger.

Darrell had hurt Ashley—and me, and my momma, and all my siblings—on more than one occasion. Despite Shelly’s bravery, this fact stuck in my throat and I couldn’t speak it. I wasn’t used to talking about my father, or what he’d done to us, and I recognized in that moment I wasn’t likely to share it willingly.

And I wasn’t ever going to be brave about it.

“What happened? Why’d he do it? How old was she?”

After I swallowed my bite of food, I answered her questions in reverse. “It was just last year, the day of our momma’s funeral. He did it ’cause he was hoping to leverage my sister for money. Our momma comes from an old family in these parts called the Olivers. That was her maiden name. She owned our family home, and he didn’t own a stick of it. The house used to be called The Oliver House. And, along with property, Momma had money. Not a whole lot, but enough that Darrell—that’s my daddy—had been plotting for years to get his hands on it. As for what happened . . .”

I moved my gaze beyond Shelly once more. It was now dark and I could see my reflection in the window. When I spoke next, I spoke to this reflection.

“He and two of his motorcycle brothers—my father is a captain in a local motorcycle club called the Iron Wraiths—jumped Ashley and Billy in the library parking lot, where the reception was. The rest of us were inside. It was just after the funeral at the cemetery and it felt like the entire town had come to say goodbye to my mother. Darrell took advantage, catching them unawares, knocking out Billy first. But my sister, she’s fierce. She got away, flagged down a sheriff’s deputy, and Darrell was caught.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. They were stuffing Billy into the back of a car, he was out cold.” I shivered a little at the memory, bringing my eyes back to Shelly’s.

She was watching me with an open expression, open and curious, like I was reading her a tale instead of relating a true story.

“Your brother Billy is okay?”

“He didn’t suffer any long-term damage from being knocked out, we were able to revive him immediately.”

“Good. That is good.” Shelly slanted her head to the side, studying me, and then her pancakes. “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.”

“Pardon?” I’d been in the process of lifting my hamburger when she’d spoken. Now I held it suspended, halfway to my mouth, certain I’d misheard her.

She took a bite of pancake, chewed, swallowed a gulp of water, and repeated, “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.”

“And why is that?”

“He sounds like a tool. If he liked you, I would think there’s something wrong with you.”

I gave her a sideways look. “That . . . sorta makes sense.” I tilted my head back and forth, considering and ultimately seeing her point. “He likes Ashley, but I think that’s because he thinks she’s weak, he thinks he can manipulate her like he did to our momma, because she’s a woman. And Ashley looks a lot like him. The rest of us, he could take or leave.”

“He thinks she’s weak because she’s a woman?” Shelly made a face, her nose scrunching, her brow furrowing. The level of expression looked foreign on her face. Even so, I liked her expressiveness. It felt rarely bestowed and consequently more valuable.

“Yes.”

“Tool.”

“Yes.” I chuckled, taking another bite of burger.

“My dad always told me how strong I was. Capable. He’s quiet, like Quinn, but when he speaks it’s always something worth hearing.”

“Like you?”

Shelly considered the question, taking an expansive breath before responding, “No. I’m not quiet, not in my natural state. When I’m at home, I talk to my dogs all day.”

“And Oliver?”

“Yes, Oliver too.”

“Just not humans?” I teased.

The side of her mouth threatened a grin again. That’s eight. “I talk to you, do I not?”

“Yes, you do. So why don’t you talk to other people?”

“I guess. . .” she paused, like she was giving the question real thought, “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

“You think you’re a bother?”

“I notice things. I can’t help it. And when I notice things, I say them. It can be bothersome.”

“What do you mean? Notice what?”

“Patterns.”

“Really?”

She nodded once.

“You’ve never said anything to me about it.”

“I think that’s because when I’m with you, I notice only you.” Again, she said these words thoughtfully, like she was working through a problem out loud.

So by the time she’d realized what she’d said, I was already wearing a giant smile meant just for her. “Is that so?”

Shelly pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes into slits. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s talk about all the things you notice about me.”

That made her laugh, which made me laugh. Her laugh also gave me the distinct sensation of being weightless and warm, unbound by time or worries.

In other words, she had a great laugh.

Movement in the window behind her—in the reflection—caught my attention, as did new voices. My smile slipped gradually as my eyes focused on the scene there, on the image of several huge, leather-clad bikers walking into the diner.

And the redheaded woman with them.

I winced. “Oh . . . shit.”

“What?”

“Don’t look up.”

“Okay.” She didn’t look up, instead becoming eerily still.

I squinted at the window and slid lower in the booth so my head wouldn’t be visible. But I could see the rest of the diner just fine.

“Behind me, a few fellas and a woman just entered.”

“Okay.” She didn’t look up to confirm, instead keeping her attention fixed on me.

“They’re members of the Iron Wraiths.” I counted their number—six total—and tried to add names to faces. Drill was there, his shiny bald head and burly build gave him away. “The woman is Christine St. Claire, the president’s old lady.”

Dammit. I reprimanded myself for my foolishness. I should have called Drill back. Instead of avoiding his calls, I should’ve just told him I wasn’t interested.

“Old lady? She’s his mother?”

“No.” I grinned at Shelly despite the situation. “His woman.”

“Girlfriend?”

I winced, because I saw three of them—at least—were carrying guns. They weren’t holding the guns, just carrying them out in the open over their T-shirts but under their jackets, being real obvious about it.

“Something like that.”

She gave me a face, like she found my response irritating. “These people are a part of your dad’s motorcycle club?”

“Yes.”

“The ones who tried to kidnap your brother and sister?”

“Yeah, but those two guys—the ones who helped Darrell—they’re in prison.” Still tracking the group’s progress in the reflection of the window, I watched as Drill approached the counter, a younger guy with a beard trailing behind him. If I wasn’t mistaken, the younger guy was Isaac Sylvester, Jennifer Sylvester’s brother. He was a recruit, not a full member. But he was also big and tall, muscular, retired Army.

“They must’ve seen my car out front,” I mumbled to myself.

“So these guys, these Wraiths, they don’t like you?”

“Something like that.” My response was distracted, because I needed to extract Shelly from this situation as quickly as possible.

I was under no illusions. This is exactly what Drill had meant in his text. Christine was here to see me, likely to take me someplace of her choosing whether I wanted to go or not.

If they saw Shelly and I together, they’d take us both, because that’s how they operated. They’d use her for leverage to get what they wanted and there was no way in hell I’d let that happen.

“Stop saying ‘something like that.’ Vague statements confuse me. Yes or no, they like you or they don’t.”

“It’s complicated. We need to get you out of here. I’ll distract them and you sneak out the back.”

Drill was moving his head from side to side, scanning the restaurant while the rest of them tried to appear nonchalant, lining up against the diner counter. They blended in about as much as a keg stand at a tea party.

I spotted movement from the entrance to the kitchen—Simone poking her head out—and I heard her say something like, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Crap.” I reached for my wallet, pulling out a few twenties and dropping them on the table. “Shelly, you need to go.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re here for me. And if they see you, they’ll take you, too.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

My eyes cut to hers and I glared at the obstinate set of her features. “Shelly.”

“No. We leave together.” Her expression and tone were fierce.

“You don’t know them, what they’re like. They’re bad people.”

“Stop wasting time. How do we get out of here together?”

Chewing on the inside of my bottom lip, I considered this stubborn woman and the likelihood that I would be able to talk her into leaving before the shit hit the fan. I decided the probability of success was zero.

“I wish Duane were here.” I thought about quickly sending him a text, but decided against it. My brother was as good as gone. I needed to figure out how to get out of these messes without him.

Shelly’s gaze flickered to a spot behind me, then back to mine. “Why?”

I gave her an apologetic look. “We gotta disappear.”

“Obviously. But what does us disappearing have to do with Duane?” Her voice lowered to a whisper.

“Because we could use a getaway driver and he’s the best.” No need to beat around the bush, especially since I was just about to tell her to make a run for the back door. “Sorry about this.”

Shelly’s eyes widened and she sat up a bit straighter in her seat, angling her chin. “I’ll do it.”

“What?” I was splitting my attention between her and the reflection of the Wraiths in the window.

“I’ll do it. I’ll be our getaway driver.”

“Shelly.” I’m sure my dismay and confusion were apparent, because her eyes narrowed on me in challenge.

“I’m a great driver. I’ve been spending my free time driving the back roads. I like to drive fast around curves and corners. And you have a fast car. Give me your keys.”

Unsure what to do, I licked my lips, my fingers digging into my front pocket for the keys but moving no further.

She must’ve sensed my hesitation, because she gave me a small smile. “Trust me, Beau.”

Shelly placed her hand on the table, palm up, and extended it toward me. Her hand was steady and her expression was as cool and collected as I’ve ever seen her.

But . . . it’s my GTO.

Oh good Lord. Just give the woman your keys.

Fine. But if she wrecks it, I’m buying that Plymouth Fury from the shop.

Heart galloping, I withdrew my keys and placed them in her hand, closing her fingers around them. “This is what we’re going to do. You get up and make like you’re going to the bathroom. The back door is in the same alcove, leave through there. Go around the north side of the building, behind the kitchens, so they don’t see you through the windows. Get to my car, watch for me, and get ready.”

“What are you going to do?”

“There’s no way I can sneak out. They’ll see my hair a mile off.” I scanned the scene in the window. “I’ll have to talk to them and leave through the front door, act like I’m going without complaint. Then I’ll say I need to get something from my car, but I’ll get in the passenger side instead. And then you take off, got it?”

“Got it.” She nodded, the smile still hovering around her lips.

I lifted an eyebrow at her expression. “You look like you’re looking forward to this.”

“I’ve been hoping you’d let me drive your car.” Her lips quirked, giving me a saucy smile.

I shook my head at this crazy—but in the best way—woman as she slid from the booth and strolled to the bathroom alcove, cool as a cucumber.

As soon as she was out of sight, I sent a silent prayer upward that she emerged from this situation unscathed and that Drill didn’t spot her.

If anything happens to her, I swear to God—

Whoa there, feisty britches.

—they won’t find the bodies.

Okay. Settle down. No need to pull the Rambo card.

I gathered a deep breath, counting to five before straightening in my seat to ensure she had enough time to make it around the building.

And then, because I really did love the GTO, I said a quick prayer for my car.