And surely I'm not their type anyway. I'm too soft, too curvy, too quiet. Not the kind of girl men like that look at twice.
“She says that now,” Gladys chirps, “but mark my words, a man like that would climb right up her kitchen window.”
“If anyone climbs my window, they’ll get introduced to my cast iron pan,” I say.
Laughter erupts again, and for a moment I can pretend I’m just a local girl with an uncomplicated life.
By the time class ends, dusk has settled over Lovestone Ridge. October air sweeps cool and wood-smoked across my skin as I lock the kitchen and wave the seniors into their cars. Their laughter fades, leaving the quiet hum of streetlights and the restless thud of my own heart.
I brace myself.
Keep your pace steady.
Don’t look back.
People who look back get remembered.
My flats slap the sidewalk. I push past the Grits&Grills diner and lift a hand to Frankie, pretending I don’t feel the prickling heat crawling up my spine, like someone is watching me.
By the time I reach the big old cabin where I rent a room, my pulse is pounding in my ears.
Mr. Hayes is on the porch. He owns the place, but lately he stands outside like he ownsmetoo.
Mid-fifties. Heavyset. Wearing an old flannel and a smile that never reaches his eyes. He was nice when I moved in three months ago. Lately he’s been…too present.Too curious. His wife’s car is gone again tonight.
“Evening, Sage,” he drawls, gaze sliding down my body. “Long day?”
“Just teaching,” I say, forcing my voice steady. I angle toward the stairs.
He steps into my path.
My stomach drops.
Mr. Hayes’ fingers close around my arm, and my breath fractures. My vision narrows to the porch boards becauselooking at his face feels too dangerous. My body goes still in the way it always does when fear presses a hand over my mouth.
“You look tense,” he says, voice too soft for the words. “Let someone take care of you. A girl like you shouldn’t be alone.”
Something sharp curls in my stomach.
“Please, move,” I whisper, barely able to force sound out.
He steps closer instead. His fingers tighten.
“Come on now. Don’t pretend you don’t know what you owe me.”
The edges of my vision pulse. My heart climbs into my throat and sticks there.
Then I hear it.
A low, dangerous motorcycle growl that vibrates straight through my ribs.
Mr. Hayes stiffens.
I can’t turn right away. My body is still caught in that trapped-animal freeze.
When I manage to look, it feels like watching something enormous emerge from the dark.
A Harley glides to a stop at the curb. The headlight sweeps the porch.
