WHAT THE HELL WAS she going to do? Just show up there? Knock? Walk in? She stared at what she believed was Chet’s residence. Bypassing a large house that was set back behind a vast, freshly mown meadow. The land was obviously once a farm and was prime river front. She continued past the house and beyond it saw a small building that was quaint and cute. It appeared to have been a guest cabin at one time. His address was that of the main house but Chet mentioned on his job application that it was the small building behind the main house, which she now stared at.

She got out of her car, her heart hammering in her chest. What was she doing here? What was she expecting from this stranger, a man she’d known for three years? What were they to each other now?

She had no idea. She softly shut the car door and stepped up to the solitary front door. It had a large window in it that was uncovered. She peeked in and saw no one. To her surprise, the entire place was cluttered with canvases. She stared at them in admiration and bewilderment. She put her hand out to knock on the door and pressed it open. Glancing around, she almost expected someone to stop her. Feeling conspicuous, she shuddered at the slight flutter of the breeze through the bushes besides her. She sucked in a breath for courage and entered the house, calling out, “Chet? Are you here? It’s me, Chloe.”

She didn’t really put her whole heart into her voice because her attention was instantly riveted on what she saw lying about the room. There was a couch at the end of it, pushed against the wall and opposite that, a TV. Sliding glass doors opened to a small deck, and beyond that was an unobstructed view of the river rushing by. It was far enough away that even high water couldn’t reach the small guest house. The land dipped down to the shoreline where the bubbling, swirling current of the mighty Columbia swept by. Chloe could see the looming black and deep green of the Oregon coastline. That made up the rest of the view, towering over everything and feeling larger than the blue sky above it all. The sun was drifting downwards, turning the hills a robust, red wine color. Breathing long deep breaths, the view impressed her but not as much as what she saw all around the place.

At the other end was a small kitchen. A lone counter, a fridge, a stove, a microwave but no dishwasher. Covering all the wall space, or stacked against it were more canvases, of all sizes. She guessed Chet might have been living with his mother but she never expected anything like this.

Chet was a painter? An artist? Holy crap. She had no idea. None whatsoever.

Who was this person she so swiftly started sleeping with?

She swiveled around, staring at the plethora of paintings, trying to take in the sheer volume of them. Words failed her. She assumed it was all his work. He painted realistic scenes. Each line and color portrayed images she recognized. Many of them were rural landscapes from around there. Some were breathtakingly beautiful. Like the one of lupine blooming by the mile down a meadow, like a purple haze drifting into the river. The mountains and river were drowned in dozens of vivid sunset colors, and the storming rainclouds hovering over the Oregon coastline imbued it with a theatrically gothic ambience.

She kneeled down and started rifling through them. There was a portrait of Dok. She paused, staring at it in wonder. Several more showed his mother in rather ordinary settings, some as mundane as performing chores or sitting and staring out at a swirling, colorful horizon around her. Chet managed to capture the calm stillness in Dok that Chloe always admired. She wondered What were these? Oil paintings? She had no idea, lacking any background in art. Several were portraits of people she didn’t recognize. One showed Native Americans selling salmon to jean-clad tourists up at the Cascade Locks. It was exquisite in its freakishly real clarity, as well as the depictions of fisherman in boats, bobbing at anchor out by the Shad Rack, a place she recognized. Ryder told her it was where a lot of anglers liked to fish. There were dozens of pictures he painted of Beacon Rock, captured in every kind of light and weather variation, from people picnicking at the boat launch near its base, to hang gliders soaring off the top. Other pictures revealed broader views of the Washington side of the river and the trains swooping through it. There were plenty more of the river too, peppered with tugboats and barges moving up and down the main channel. He even included the crews, walking the ships or tying lines on tugs as they carried their freight of wheat and logs downriver.

Chet painted every single view and perspective of the way of life around there. There wasn’t much he missed. Chloe paused and gasped in shock when she found a painting of herself. Holy shit. Staring down at it in disbelief, she pulled it out to examine it. She was inside her café, which he carefully painted, including all the accurate details. But he blended them all in more softly than reality. Standing near the front counter, she was leaning on it, as she often did, and smiling. Her hand was suspended in mid-air and she appeared to be talking to the customer in front of her. Gary was sitting on his stool and Mr. Hepstourn was eating a single scoop of vanilla ice cream. She saw a few faces she didn’t recognize. In each portrait, Chet painted the most exquisite, crazy-real details. Each expression and personal mannerism was exquisitely frozen on the canvas. They looked so deep and honest, and real, exactly like each person. Gary’s gaze was directed toward the back of a blonde waitress, which was obviously Tara’s backside. A soft, gentle longing shone in his eyes. Not overt ogling. It perfectly reflected his shy crush on Tara. And the way Mr. Hepstourn sat, looking so alone with his single scoop of plain ice cream, also easily conveyed his sad isolation since losing his wife three years earlier to kidney disease. He looked just as lost and alone as he did on her last day with him.

Flipping through the canvases some more, Chloe saw her face. She went back to examine it more closely. She wasn’t smiling at the counter, but staring downwards, and her face had no makeup, making her seem very plain in its mood and effect. She could feel the stark grief in her eyes that Chet painted. How did he manage to capture that? It was so obviously her and the way she’d looked since Ebony’s body was found. He managed to paint the grief she felt in her soul. She gazed at it, and her heart squeezed and hurt. She wondered if she felt anger toward him for seeing it, or awe at his ability to portray exactly what she felt. How did she feel at seeing her emotional breakdown on canvas? Never mind that it was his unique vision and obvious talent. Was she touched that he actually perceived that in her and used it for inspiration?

But then again it also felt like a breach of her privacy. Like her pain was fodder for his hobby.

Exhaling a few deep breaths before she was ready to face it again, she lifted it back up and studied the sad, bitter, alone, and broken woman who looked so much older than she remembered her. It was almost like she were staring at herself and Ebony. That’s what was so creepy about it.

She was startled when a scuffling sound drew her attention and her heart accelerated instantly. Behind her, the door suddenly opened and Chet stepped out. He stopped dead when he spotted her. She was squatting before a pile of his paintings. Swallowing hard, all she could do was look at him. He’d been showering. Duh. That’s why he didn’t hear her. Water dripped from his hair, streaming down his shoulders and chest. A few strands of hair flipped over onto his forehead. A white towel was wrapped around his waist and his long legs were visible from the calves down. She couldn’t deny the sharp stab of sexual attraction. She wasn’t aware of it until just then.

She rose up to her full height. His mouth didn’t twitch up or down, but neither did he frown at her or appear angry. Nothing. Stone-faced as usual. She smiled, embarrassed and anxious to conceal her unease. He still didn’t respond or show any expression. Huh. What did he think? How should she proceed? Should she apologize for entering without his permission? Gush over his artwork? Run out of there, fearing he was mad that she stole a peek at his art? She suddenly realized she was holding the canvas that depicted her. Slowly, she returned it to the stack while they played chicken with their eyes in a deadlock.

“I… I knocked first. The door was open. I thought you’d hear me when I called your name.”

He stepped closer, passing by her. “But when I didn’t, you decided to come on in and have a look around?”

She watched him pick up his phone and quickly hit the screen before typing with lightning-fast fingers. Obviously, some kind of chore must have been responsible for getting him out of the bathroom while still undressed. Her gaze stayed riveted on his form. When had he gotten such a ripped chest? And back? And calves? How had she never noticed it?

“I got your address from your employee file. I hope—”

He stared at his phone before glancing up. “Finally read it, huh? Find anything else interesting? My name? Age? Ethnicity? Languages that I might speak?”

She grimaced at his sarcasm. He clicked the phone off and fully gave his attention to her, crossing his arms over his chest. “You often just let yourself into other people’s homes?”

“No.” Her shoulders slumped forward. “I just…”

His eyebrows rose, as if he were impatiently waiting. She sighed. “I couldn’t help seeing the paintings and I had to see more. More than I cared about observing proper etiquette. So I… I just let myself in.” She dropped her face down, feeling ashamed. What if these were his personal secret? Some sensitive artist quirk and he didn’t allow anyone else to look at them? What if he refused to forgive her for so rudely barging in there?

He ran a hand through his hair, but seemed distracted. “Something happen? Why did you look up my address?”

She turned and casually started strolling past the paintings, her hand gently gliding over the top of them as if she were dying for something else to capture her attention. She shrugged almost listlessly now. “No. Nothing. I just realized I didn’t have even your cell phone number, and considering you work for me, I should have it—”

“You’ve never needed it before. Why now?”

Her shoulders slumped forward. “I don’t know.”

“Did you want to see me?”

She licked her lips and forced her gaze up to him. Then she felt hot and blushing as she ogled his damp, naked torso. Sunlight flooded across his body from the high window above him. “Yes. Okay? I just didn’t know how to contact you. So I got your information from my files.”

He picked up his phone and seconds later, her own rang. “There, now you have it.”

She sighed. He didn’t seem mad, neither from her intrusive entrance or because she was poking around his things. His paintings. No small breach of privacy. She stepped by the sliding glass door, and stared out. “I had no idea you were such a good artist.”

“I’m not.”

She whipped around at his grunt-like reply. She tilted her head. “Are you being coy? I mean, take a look around you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the counter. As he straightened up, he shrugged. “I paint sometimes. That doesn’t make me an artist.”

“What do you think an artist is? Any painter is an artist by definition.”

“No. An artist sells his work or desperately wants to, and often tries to. I just paint for a hobby.”

“O-o-oh…ka-a-y,” she said, drawing out her syllables. “You’re fantastic at it too. I mean, the way you manage to capture people’s expressions and moods is crazy, and eerily correct. I can’t believe this is what you like to do in your spare time. Your hobby.”

He shrugged. “I paint what I observe. See, I’m not an artist because I only like painting reality, nature, and people, all the things I can actually see or imagine. I don’t paint a circle and try to endow it with the meaning of life or that kind of shit.”

She bit her lip at the disdain she detected in his voice. “You mean, like abstract art?”

“Yeah, you know, real art. Never did get that shit. When someone tells me to ‘see what I want in it,’ it’s usually some kind of crazy, undistinguishable gobs of color or coiled metals. That kind of art means nothing to me. Never could find any meaning in them.”

Chloe didn’t intend to but she laughed anyway. “I think painting realistically is very artistic. It’s not easy to reproduce something that you saw so accurately and true.”

“Nah. Not profound enough.”

“I think you’re brilliant. I mean the way you painted the customers at the café, I could tell you all about them even if I didn’t know any of them.”

“Brilliant? Sure, at painting exactly what I see.” He didn’t pretend to hide behind his humility but neither did she think he realized his talent. How unique his art was. How moving. How sensitive he was to people that he could observe so well, and reproduce so realistically on a canvas.

“I had no idea.”

“Again. It’s just a hobby. Why should you?”

“Can I look through all of them?”

He shrugged. “Sure. If you want to.”

She was thrown off by his natural ease, but annoyed over his denial about his talent. She pictured any artist as being sensitive, and always unsure about the true value of their work. Some artists cherished their isolation and privacy. Not Chet. She wondered why she never considered that side of him before. The brooding, solitary, quiet, reserved, dark artist. Only he wasn’t exactly quiet, not when he had something to say. His constant habit of never changing his facial expression made him dark and brooding to her before, but now, she doubted if it was that at all. She had no way to describe him, at least, what she knew of him. He was unique, but not exactly odd. Not a strange odd anyway. He wasn’t easy to define.

She glanced down, pulling out a painting of a docked sailboat as he said, “I’m going to finish drying off and dressing. So, will you wait for me?”

She nodded. As if she would run out as curiously as she showed up. He held her gaze for a long, pregnant pause before stepping backwards and disappearing through the door he came through. Bedroom? Must have been. His bathroom must have been further away than that because she hadn’t heard his shower running or any of his movements until he appeared.

He came out a few minutes later, toweling off his hair until it no longer dripped but stayed in place. He came closer and she straightened up to stand. His gaze held hers, prodding her to respond. “So, what are you really doing here? Scanning my collection of pretty pictures couldn’t have been your purpose.”

“It could have been if I’d known.” She scoffed. “How come you don’t advertise or even talk about this?”

“It’s no secret. If it ever came up in conversation, I’d have said something to you.”

“What is a secret? What else don’t I know about you?”

“How am I supposed to answer that? How do I know what you know? Only you know that.”

She scowled. “That is some skewed logic.”

He flashed a smile, showing his beautiful white teeth. “Ask me something then.”

“Why did you paint me?”

“For the same reason I slept with you: I find you attractive.”

She scowled. He refused to leave that subject alone for very long. “Not—not that one. Was the picture how I looked at the funeral?”

He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Why would you paint that?”

“Because that’s what you looked like. I told you, I paint what I observe.”

That’s it? As much as he could express about it? His paintings revealed an uncanny perception and view of the human experience and condition. He managed to reflect her grief in a two-dimensional representation, which even complete strangers could see. He made it so tangible, people could feel her sadness. Tapping into the emotions of their souls, Chet had the gift of accurately portraying real pain. He did it so well, he could allow any casual observer to experience the anguish he captured. It was a deeply troubling sensation, but it proved he was a genius when it came to interpreting the human psyche. In all modesty, he simply replied “that’s what he observed”?

“And that’s it? That’s all you have to say about it?”

“Well, if you expected a dissertation on the neoclassical styles and other points of view, or the underlying symbolism in my work, I’m not your guy. I already told you; I’m not an artist.”

She scowled at him. He was so obviously wrong she couldn’t get a handle on his logic. She sighed out of frustration. Fine. They’d leave it at that; he painted whatever he saw. Being woefully under-advertised and unappreciated doomed any future he could look forward to.

“How’d it go with the police?”

Sighing, Chloe turned and dropped down on the couch. “Long. Exhausting. I had to discuss every last detail of my sister’s life, routine, and her personality as well as every possible person who might have crossed her path and then I had to repeat it with myself.”

He nodded, but she saw no sympathy in his expression. “You want some alcohol?”

A half smile tugged at her lips. The first of the day. “Yeah. That sounds pretty good.”

From the kitchen, he offered her a glass filled with clear liquid. She glanced his way. “How did you know what I like?”

“You drank it at an office party or two.” He nodded toward her. “You and Ryder obviously made peace.”

She drank her cocktail liberally and sighed when it quickly zinged in her bloodstream. “Yeah. It happened in the middle of the night actually.”

“And Tara must have loved that on the day she got bawled out and fired by you before getting engaged to that very same man.” Chet spoke with levity, raising his eyebrows comically.

She shook her head, and actually began smiling at his dry sarcasm. “No, no. I personally spoke to Tara at 3:30 in the morning for about fifteen minutes. At the time, I was cowering in my bathroom, a butcher knife in one hand and my phone in the other.”

He jerked at hearing her enigmatic words, just as she supposed he would. “What the hell? Were you trying to kill yourself?”

She sputtered on the second cocktail he made for her. Coughing, she shook her head to the negative. “No, oh, my God. No. I was hiding. Someone was trying to get into my house. And I wasn’t on sleeping pills either,” she added before he, like Ryder, dared to ask or assume the worst.

“What do you mean? Who was trying to get into your house?”

“The obvious answer is: I don’t know. That’s why I was hiding with my weapon and calling the only cop I knew would come and help me. I woke up and ate the dinner you made me and thank you, by the way. And as I walked around, marveling at the clean, uncluttered, scrubbed, disinfected, and tidy house, I heard someone outside. First, they were trying to open the front door, then a shadow passed by the front window and ended up at the back sliding door, doing the same thing, trying to get in. I saw his shadow lurking. It was a man’s. I do not doubt that. Not from the silhouette that I saw. It wasn’t a cat or dog either before you ask me that or dare to accuse me of not knowing the difference. And thank you again for cleaning, cooking, and locking up. Most especially, for locking up. I hadn’t been very careful about that during the last few weeks.”

“Yeah, everything was wide open. Shit. What happened then?”

“Nothing. I hid. Tara talked me through it until Ryder showed up. He looked around, saw nothing, and Tara and I buried the hatchet. Ryder took me to the police station.” She shook her head, drinking more swiftly and staring at her glass before swirling the last few sips. Her eyes were riveted on the liquid. “And then, I felt compelled to come here.”

He was quiet, staring down and seemingly lost in thought.

“Chet?”

He glanced up. “That’s freaky. Do you think—?”

“Do I think what? I don’t know what to think about anything.”

“Do you think it’s someone connected to… to Ebony?”

She jerked her spine upright and slammed the glass down, sloshing the liquor. “What? Like… like her murderer?” Her voice rose, getting high and sharp.

“Yeah.”

She winced. No cutting corners or toning down what he thought might possibly allay her fears, was he? She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Other than that he was honest and she could certainly attest to it. No bullshit. Not from Chet.

“Did he try to break in?”

She frowned. “No. He tried both doors then stopped. Very quiet.”

“Maybe… maybe he’s been in there before. The last few days, while you slept, everything was messy so it would be hard to tell if he moved anything or took anything. And you were doped up and out of it on sleeping pills. Perfect recipe for him to come in.”

“Why?” her voice was a squeal. “Why would that happen? Why would anyone do that? No. Oh, my God. No. That’s so sick.” She shuddered, picturing someone just coming into her house as she slept, clueless and vulnerable and oh, GOD! “Do you think? Do you think that could be?”

“I have no idea. But it is strange, not to mention, creepy. But maybe not totally out of the realm of possibility. Consider this, the body was found and it set off a flurry of gossip. From word of mouth, the news of her death and her remains being found and all the gossip it generates is being shared on social media as well as more formal avenues, like the community newsletter. Ebony is being talked about a lot, where she hadn’t been for years, correct?”

“Yes. I mean, other than Ryder and my own family.”

“Well, it’s all anyone around here is talking about lately. There is even some fear about who could have done this. It’s brought more attention to it. And to you. You look just like her. The resemblance is… mildly shocking. Maybe—”

“You think my face could draw whoever murdered my sister to me?” Chloe’s voice rose even higher.

“Yeah. I would consider it. Sane people don’t commit murders, right?” Chet paused, sliding his gaze to her and gentling his tone. “I know she was murdered. But I didn’t hear how.”

She shut her eyes for a prolonged moment. “Yes. Not many did. She was shot. In the back.” Her voice wavered and she felt as if she were choking as she spat it out.

“You should report what happened.”

“I did. Today, while being questioned.”

“Good. Did they have any thoughts or suggestions?”

“They all seemed to think it was just someone randomly breaking in. A stranger or kid or whatever. Nothing connected to Ebony.”

“Possible. All is possible, of course, because no one knows. But it’s also possible it’s connected and therefore, far more serious.”

“What should I do?” She glanced outside. The twilight was setting in and the thought of night drifting over the land and her house made her shudder.

“Stay here.”

She licked her lips. “That’s not why I came.”

“Then why did you come?”

She had to drop her gaze from the heat of his intense eyes. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know why I came. I just wanted to. I felt raw after the interview and Ryder went home to Tara, of course, and my parents are in no condition to help me, since they can’t even help themselves. Things haven’t been good between us actually. It’s like they want me to be Ebony.”

“I didn’t know that. You were always so close to them, or so it seemed.”

She stared at her thumbs, picking the cuticle of one as she sighed. “We were. Until this. Now I get the feeling—no, now I’m sure, my mother especially finds it painful to even look at me. I’ve never been a source of pain to them, so I’m not sure how to handle it. I mean, I know it isn’t my fault. But that doesn’t help how inadequate and strange I feel around them now. I’ve never felt self-conscious just for being alive. But today I do. I feel bad being around them or trying to be myself. I feel like I need to hide my face. I find myself averting it from them, lest they stare at me, looking for Ebony. Their dead daughter. It’s kind of a cruel, life-long torture, huh? Every time they see their only remaining daughter, they have to endure another gut-check reminder of their dead daughter.

“But you always did look alike. It can’t be that confusing to them. Maybe to strangers, but your parents know you two as different people. I mean, Ryder loved Ebony and not you, because he knew you were different people despite the physical similarity. He could separate you and he didn’t meet you two until you were in your twenties. Your own parents owe it to you to work that out and quickly.”

She shrugged, flopping her hands up into the air. “God, I hope so. But it doesn’t change anything right now, and they don’t seem to be able to. I can’t seem upset about Ebony’s murder investigation because how could I expect them to comfort me? And yet, there’s no one else.” She stared down at her palms, sucking in a deep breath. “I didn’t know that. Not until today. That my world was so limited and I had become too cocooned with my parents and Ryder. I think it happened because of Wyatt, but as adults, we got along so well and we also did share Ebony, so it was natural. But when Tara came along, I realized how much I isolated myself from most of the community. And I didn’t know… I didn’t know you were even a possibility until now, too. So I’m confused. I have no idea why I came here.”

His stare was overbearing. “Perhaps I could have been a little more obvious about some things—”

“Ya think? Like maybe letting me know that you could speak English?” She popped up her head with a snarky smile. He laughed, taking the joke as she meant it.

“Perhaps by talking to you more.”

Still puzzled by her true purpose for being there, including her willingness to put herself in such a situation, she finally asked, “Why did you clean my house, Chet?” She stared into his eyes, trying to find something familiar. An answer. A reason. An explanation for what felt weird and unexplainable to her. For why he could be both an exciting stranger and a comfort to her. It was an incongruous combination that she felt with him.

“Because it was dirty.” Simple. Crisp. Clear-cut. It was dirty.

“But that was a really considerate thing to do. Unusually considerate, since you hardly know me.”

He shrugged. “It was dirty so I cleaned it. I wouldn’t read too much into it. Plenty of other things a person could do for you. Much more important things.”

“Really? When someone’s hurting? Like what? Just being there? Helping them? Letting them grieve and be like you’ve been to me?”

“It’s easy to do the obvious.”

“It doesn’t seem to be obvious though to anyone else.” She studied him and her gaze was probing. He shrugged, but let her. He didn’t seem uneasy from it. How could he take that without flinching, twitching, blushing or even seeming to care? She really didn’t know this man. All she knew so far had shocked and surprised her, especially the sex. And even now, tonight, his blunt behavior and words somehow cut straight to the heart of her situation. Her fears of the intruder no longer made her feel like she was wigging out. Chet made her feel, hell, supported, noticed, and cared about. Something she didn’t receive from anyone else.

“You hungry?”

She blinked when his question pierced her curious appraisal of him and nodded. “Actually, I am.” The alcohol hit her system and made her head spin.

“I’ll make you something, but no harsh criticism. I’m no cook.” He jumped up and over the back of the couch, his long legs clearing it easily, then sauntered into his small kitchen. She laughed at his comment, sinking down to the end of his couch, and resting her head on the arm. She sighed, closing her eyes. Normally, she’d jump up and offer to help. She had a talent for blending any ingredients into something good. But her desire and motivation to do so escaped her. It had for a while now, it seemed. After some clanging and banging, Chloe heard the food sizzling. Her eyes closed and his quiet movements in the kitchen soothed her by not making her feel lonely. His presence was enough for her. Comfort without any pressure. He didn’t require platitudes, chatter, or idle babble for the sake of conversation. He could have just been quiet. And right now? She wanted that too. But then again, she dreaded being alone. He was fast becoming the best of both worlds.

She drifted off at some point and awoke suddenly to stare out towards a wall of darkness. Sitting up, she glanced around. Chet clicked the TV remote to pause what he was watching and glanced her way. He was stretched out on the opposite end of his couch, his feet resting on the ottoman.

“What time is it?”

“Past midnight.”

She flopped back down. All she did was sleep. But at usually odd hours. “It’s freaking dark out here.”

“Yeah. Not many neighbors here. You get lights from the passing boats once in a while.”

“I actually thought you lived with Dok.”

He laughed and leaned forward. “No, I don’t live with my mother.”

“You work with her.” Chloe yawned, her curiosity piqued by Chet. She got up so she could sit while facing him. Of late, every morning when she woke up, she felt a punch in the gut with one word: Ebony. Now, however, Chet had her undivided interest. For the first time in weeks, her primary thought was not attached to her sister.

“Only because she made you hire me.”

“Why? Why did she do that? What were you doing before?”

He shrugged, crossing his arms. “You want some dinner now?”

She eyed him as he brushed off her question. “Sure.”

He got up and so did she, following him through the gloomy room. The paused TV was the only light. He pulled a plate from the fridge, covered it in wrap and set it in the microwave.

“So? What were you doing?”

He leaned a hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow. “Not much. I was painting. Hanging out. Did some classes here and there at the community college. I was only twenty-one. So not that old. I worked a bunch of jobs, similar to what I do for you. This was just closer to my mom. She needed help at the time. She was struggling.”

He wasn’t that young anymore however. Was this his life’s ambition? The only future he saw for himself? All he wanted from life? She bit her tongue to keep from asking such questions and sounding more like his mother or a school career counselor.

She switched tactics. “Are you guys from around here?”

“Where? America?”

“I meant Silver Springs.”

He nodded. “I know. Just giving you shit for the ‘do you speak English’ question. No. We lived in Oregon, just outside of St. Helens.”

“Why come to Silver Springs?”

“Me? I told you. To help my mom. She came here to work in a friend’s quilting shop. Then the shop closed and coincidentally, right then, you and Ebony opened the café. She was so excited, she immediately put in an application.”

Chloe tilted her head. “Why would she be so excited to work for us? Our wages aren’t exactly union grade.”

“Because you’re women. The place was owned and operated by two women and she thought that was impressive. She hoped she might be treated better than she was in other places. She’s small and quiet so a lot of people ignore her when they’re not trying to dominate her. Men especially. I’ve witnessed it so often.”

“I never thought our womanhood was the draw. Does it bother you that I’m your boss?” He slid the plate across to her. She sat on a bar seat and took the meal, sinking her fork into the tortellini with white sauce on it.

“No.”

She lowered the forkful she was about to set on her tongue. “Honestly? It doesn’t bother you? You don’t feel uncomfortable for getting personal with the same person who tells you what to do? I sign your paycheck. Don’t you think it’s kind of unusual?”

He shrugged but his shoulders still looked relaxed and at ease. “I know what my job is and what I was hired to do. You made it pretty clear and specific, as you always do. Perhaps that’s the reason why I rarely ask for further instructions—”

“Or speak to me ever.”

 “Yeah, that too. It doesn’t matter to me whether a man or a woman tells me how to do what I’m hired for. Besides, you’re successful, far more than I am at this point, so why the hell would I think it reflected negatively on me? It has little or nothing to do with me, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, yeah. Duh. But most men might not agree with you or see it that way.”

“Bit of a generalization, isn’t it?”

“Just a conclusion from personal experience.”

He came around the bar and sat on the stool next to her, facing her.

But she looked forward and continued eating, then said, “I’m not though.”

“What?” His tone emphasized his puzzlement.

“Successful. It was all Ebony’s influence. She did everything. The café was her idea. She thought of it years ago during her first year in college. She studied business specifically with that in mind. She asked her professors for their advice on this exact scenario and how she should go about financing and opening such a venture. She learned how to make a business plan and secured the financing before we set up the space. She did so much research, you can’t even imagine it. She found a small business loan that was specifically designed for women-run businesses that not only offered low rates but also required little to no down payment or collateral. Ebony presented her business plan with all the costs and cash flow outlined along with her predicted target customers. She even had statistics on how many truckers used this highway and other pertinent demographics. It was so impressive. And it was all her doing. Ryder had some money to invest but she refused to let him. She insisted that it be only our joint venture. She was like that. Stubborn as a mule and proud as a lioness. A very annoying and impossible-to-please combination, but it also took her quite far in life. I mean, look at what she accomplished. She filled her life with everything she wanted before she died. And she was so young. All I did was cook and write the menu. She ran the whole restaurant.”

Suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of her sister, Chloe’s stomach twisted in repulsion and she set her utensil down. “Then she disappeared and left all of it to me. My sole responsibility. My way.” She shook her head, staring down, ashamed to admit what she never told anyone, not even Ryder or her parents. “I can’t do it. All this time, for the past three years, I’ve had no idea what I’m doing. Not since the moment I realized it was all under my care and management. I floundered and instantly flubbed it up. The mistakes I made… I could sit here listing all the things I’ve over-ordered and the money I wasted, not to mention all the paperwork I’ve screwed up. I’ve had to pay plenty of late fines, and naturally, the insurance costs only keep rising and on and on it goes. There were bills I didn’t know I had to pay and so much paperwork. Stuff I had no idea how to figure out. Like accounting—what a nightmare. That’s why I never bothered to read your employment file. I don’t do any of those things right because I never worked as a manager or an office person, let alone, someone who knows anything about interviews and hiring staff. With you it was easy. Dok provided the answer for me and filled a position I needed filled. Meanwhile, I didn’t have to do anything. It was like magic. One less thing for me to fail at. You started when Ebony had just vanished. I never learned how to do what Ebony did. She was the real talent and business woman. Truly, I was no more than the cook. Did you know that? I used to cook. Before Tiana. She’s my aunt and I had to hire her because there was no way I could keep up without Ebony. I miss just cooking now. That’s what I wanted to do. I still want to cook.”

 “You’re doing it.”

“What? Cooking? A few pastries now and then isn’t what I call cooking.”

“No. I mean, you’re doing everything Ebony did. You do manage everything, from the office work to ordering supplies to paying us. No one would suspect differently. You’re managing all of it.”

She peeked his way, surprised and pleased that he noticed she did, and thought so.

“There’s so much more I could do. Ebony had so many great ideas and the motivation, ambition, drive, and know-how to make them happen. She wanted to expand our services into personal catering and had so many creative ideas on how to get more loans. Me? The risk of taking on more debt just scares me. I try never to do it. I can barely manage what I’m doing now. How could I add to that? She was the visionary. The go-getter. She was the real owner. Truly. I’m just the dumb cook who keeps letting so many things fall through the cracks.”

“You don’t have to be like Ebony. Or do it her way. Can you make a living at it?”

“Yes. Actually, I do. I won’t be rich anytime soon, but yes. Satisfactory for me.”

“You also provide a decent living for your employees, right? Me. My mom. Petra. Tiana. Tara. You not only employ five residents but you also create a place for all the citizens of Silver Springs to congregate. You’re beloved by this town and so is your café. Your café has become a staple, maybe even the focal point of this village. People talk about it with pride and assume everyone else knows about it. It’s where couples go on special dates and large groups meet to discuss activities or fundraisers. So it’s not nothing. You don’t have to do any more than you already do to enjoy and feel a valid sense of pride in what you’ve accomplished.”

Her mouth dropped open. She’d never heard Chet speak that way. “Um… I… really?”

His version, however, sounded a whole hell of a lot more impressive, interesting, and important than her version. Her version was that she could barely function and always seemed to be behind the eight ball. The café was nothing more than an over-blown truck stop.

“Really. You didn’t know that? Did you see all the people at the funeral? The whole town was there for you, more than for Ryder or your parents or even Ebony. People were bereft for you. Your pain is theirs. Your loss is theirs. They see you all the time and interact with you. You’re the person who always smiles and greets them and takes care of them. That can’t be found at a cold franchise in town from a stranger. You create a community of kindness around you, an atmosphere of joy. People feel welcome. You provide a sense of belonging and community. The last thing people with my kind of personality could ever create. People notice that about you. And they value and cherish it because they know you are genuine about it. They care for you. Your sister had talents and lots of unique qualities that she brought to this business, but so do you.”

She blew out a slow breath. “That’s far more flattering than I deserve.”

“No. I don’t believe in flattery. I can’t be bothered.”

She laughed because something rang true about his words in their deadpan tone. She knew he wouldn’t bother. That was something she could attest to. He was serious, blunt, and intense, rarely bothering with idle compliments or small talk. She finally replied, “Thank you. That means a lot to me. And I know you wouldn’t say it unless you meant it.”

His gaze stayed steady on hers. “Now what, Chloe? Do you want to stay here? Not on my couch, or would you rather go home? Or go to your parents?”

She sucked in a breath. Here it was. Time to own this, even if it was still undefined for her. It was so impossible to describe or give a clear-cut label to. Too soon. Too awkward. Too uncomfortable. And yet, all she wanted was to climb into his bed and stay there. She longed to be held by him. She ached to feel less small and not so alone in a world that once seemed so lovely, safe, engaging, and worthwhile. Now she felt like she was continuously fighting to avoid being swallowed whole.

“I’m scared to go home,” she admitted, taking the cowardly route.

He sighed, narrowing his eyes on her. “Okay, so on my couch it is.” Hopping to his feet, he started to turn to leave her.

“Wait!” she sputtered, shocked at how swiftly he moved. “What do you mean?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb with me, Chloe. If you’re here because you’re scared to stay alone after last night’s visitor, I get it. You can sleep on my couch. I’m not going to beg you. I thought it was something different. Good night.” Turning around, he left her there.

Damn. Literal to the crazy. He didn’t ever suffer from waffling or insecurity. He didn’t fail to say something because he was nervous, embarrassed or just plain scared to voice the words. Maybe he chose not to label it. Sometimes, people needed someone to talk them into it. But not Chet.

She stepped after him. “Chet. Stop.”

He was at his bedroom door. Again with the inquiring look, and he even raised his eyebrows. She stared down at the ground, twisting her fingers together. “I don’t want to stay on your couch. You’ve got to read my signals a little bit better, okay? I don’t always just outright voice my intentions.”

“Why not? If you want something to be a certain way, then say so. If you don’t, tell me. It’s a waste of my time otherwise, but also because you’re my boss, Chloe. This doesn’t have to affect things if you’re honest and real. But if you aren’t, it could. I could be coming on to you when it’s not welcome. I can’t just go by subtle signals you want me to pick up on. Be clear because I take you at your word.”

She was sure she looked like a barnyard owl with her eyes as wide as saucers. He made a huge and valid point. But she’d never known anyone who could be so direct.

“And for that matter, from here forward, if you want to have sex, just say so. If that’s the extent of what you prefer to have between us, just tell me. It’s fine. If you want something more, then say what it is. If I offend you or upset you, you have to tell me. If you want or need something, then plainly tell me.”

The way he said it suggested his past experiences. “You’ve had this happen before?”

“Yeah. Expecting people to guess your intentions by poking around and finding a different meaning from what you say? Seems like a waste of time to me. I’m not interested in that.”

She held his gaze. His arms were crossed and she gulped as she replied, “You don’t dick around.”

His lips lifted. “I just wanted to be clear. I like being clear and honest. I don’t see why that is hard for anyone. Or why it’s too much to ask some people not to jerk me around. Combined with my past experience, I have concluded that’s where most of the avoidable misunderstandings come from.”

She bit her lip. “You’re right, it is. But, Chet, sometimes, things just aren’t that clear-cut. Sometimes, well, sometimes a person is just emotional or upset or moody. It sounds like you expect me to be clear-cut in my thoughts at all times. I can promise you right now that I can’t provide that yet. Not while my emotions over Ebony’s murder continue to rage. And even about Ryder and Tara. It sometimes obscures what I want to think or even feel. Including what I am even doing here. I’m not playing games with you. I really don’t know why I am here.”

He leaned his shoulder into the door as she spoke, setting his gaze solidly on her. She’d give him credit for that; his focus was laser-like when he gave his undivided attention to her. It was both disconcerting and flattering. She couldn’t decide what she thought or felt about him at all. Not even a little. How could she? She was still mired in grief from the trauma, shock, guilt, shame, and loss. His sudden interest in her wasn’t anything she was prepared to encounter. How could she find the right words for it?

“I can’t give you any guarantee that I’ll be as clear-cut and straightforward as you want me to be. I need a little understanding and some time and I would appreciate your forgiveness when my emotions get the better of me, like they did with Tara, and I lose it. To hear you describe it, we couldn’t last two hours with each other because I’m an emotional wreck and you insist on conversing exclusively by using clear and concise logic.”

“You’re missing the point. I can handle your emotions, as well as your confusion and grief even. Just be clear about what you want from me. I consider you an adult who says what she means and I will respond to you as such.”

“So despite my ragged emotions, you’ll always believe what I say and assume I mean it?”

“Exactly.”

“Huh,” she grunted.

“I accept whatever anyone says with the same gravity, unless I know differently.”

She believed him. “Why would you want me now? Why start something with someone at the same time as the beginning of an emotional quagmire? It’s just starting, Chet. I’m not going to get miraculously better. It might take years. I might be a wreck and overly emotional or have volatile mood swings and cry a whole lot. Why on earth would you be willing to take that on?”

He dropped his arms to his sides and straightened up. “Because I like you. A lot. I like being around you, and that’s enough for me.”

“That’s it? Because you like me?”

His gaze darted around as he shrugged. “What better reason could there be?”

She didn’t know. His simple and honest answer rang true. “You’re not the kind of man who can spin elaborate prose or garnish your words with charm, but Chet, because of that, I believe every single word you say. It seems as if you are always deadly serious. No games. No crap. And I doubt you would ever lie to me.”

“No, you’re right about that. I don’t lie.”

“Or cheat. Or steal. Or even fudge on stuff, do you?”

“Not really. No.”

She nodded, smiling at his deadly earnest reaction. She sensed he applied his philosophy throughout his life and she liked to believe that. Especially at a time when she wasn’t sure of anything else. For some reason, knowing she could be sure of whatever he said comforted her.

She sighed. “I don’t see why anyone would want to even start a relationship with me right now. I don’t know what will happen. Or how I will react. I can’t imagine that it would be good. Neither my moods nor my disposition. I can’t imagine ever feeling happy again or wanting to go out and have fun. How could anyone choose to be part of that after losing so much?” She lifted her eyes up and stared at his. He already had his gaze fastened on her.

“I don’t need constant amusement or artificial fun. I accept you exactly as you are. I saw you at the funeral. There’s nothing I don’t get about this situation right now for you.”

Gasping, her breath seemed to be impaired and she worried it would strangle her. How could anyone want that? Much less, choose it? But she wanted very much to believe him. He said and did exactly what he meant to. No games. No pretenses. Not even confusing facial expressions. Always neutral. So maybe he could handle her unpredictability right now. The only thing she knew was she wasn’t okay, and not going to be anytime soon. Maybe not even years from now. And she foresaw it getting worse before it could begin to get better. “I should leave. No one deserves something so capricious. Wait. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I mean, why else would anyone even try to approach me when you did? Maybe I’m reading this all wrong.” She pressed her knuckles into her aching eyes. She couldn’t get a grip on it or figure out anything, let alone, this.

“It’s what I want.”

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, shocked at his statement, his honesty, and so much more. It was the only thing that could manage to extract her heart from the black hole it had fallen into since the moment she first learned her sister was dead. She blinked her eyes open and whispered, “I came here because, well, I feel so alone by myself and when you are around—”

“What?” he stepped away from the doorway and walked towards her. His arms came out and he pulled her close to him. In response, her hands slid up his chest towards his shoulders and wrapped around his neck.

“The only thing that makes it feel tolerable is you.”

“Then let that be all the explanation you need.”

She drew in a breath and finally nodded. “Okay, I don’t want to go home or sleep on the couch.”

He embraced her tightly and long, holding her right there in the small hallway. His head burrowed into where her neck met her shoulder. His breath was warm on her neck and ear, and she shut her eyes and leaned against him. She felt safe and protected and wanted and warm. Otherwise? She was cold. Numb. Dead. It scared her when it was otherwise. This special person who was still a stranger, but whom she knew for three years was enchanting her. How could she make sense of it? Being so fucked up in her emotions and her thoughts, maybe it didn’t matter if she couldn’t explain it. Chet couldn’t either and didn’t seem to want to.

He finally released her and held her hand as he brought her towards his bed. She glanced around, seeing the room was only big enough for his bed and one nightstand. But it was meticulously clean, which she expected after how well he’d taken care of her house and the café. He placed her on the bed, coming up behind her, and tugged the covers over them.

The dark soothed her. His calm but commanding way in which he took care of her helped her feel like she was nearly back in control. And definitely not so alone. She didn’t need to question it any longer. Falling asleep after his silence, she reveled in his comfort and companionship.