I didn’t answer. The smoke rose between us, mixin’ with the mist comin’ off the marsh. Bolt nudged a pebble with his boot.
“Fiona said she saw Lark come in,” he added. “Said she looked upset.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said too fast.
His brow lifted. “That a correction or a confession?”
“Neither.”
“Mm-hm.” He leaned back on his elbows. “You like her.”
“Don’t start.”
“I ain’t startin’. Just observin’. You look at her different. Talk about her different. Hell, you don’t talk about much else lately.”
I dragged on the cigarette, watchin’ the ember burn low. “How’d you get Fiona to trust you? After bein’ such an asshole?”
“Pestered her to death,” he said easily. “Eventually she figured out I wasn’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “That tracks.”
Bolt’s voice dropped into somethin’ quieter. “Listen, man. If this woman’s makin’ you feel things you ain’t felt before? She’s the one. Trust me on that.”
“I’m not the problem,” I replied, flickin’ the cigarette to the dirt and lightin’ another.
“Women can be puzzlin’ creatures,” Bolt said with a smirk. “But once you figure out where the pieces go for the one that’s yours? Everything slides into place.”
We fell quiet again, not comfortable, but familiar. The night buzzed with frogs and far-off engines hummin’ along the highway. That’s when I saw it.
Movement. Near the treeline. Just a shadow. A flicker. Gone quick enough I might’ve imagined it. Still, the hairs on my arms stood up.
Bolt flicked his cigarette away. “You comin’ in?”
“In a minute.”
He nodded and headed inside, leavin’ me alone with the wind movin’ through the grass and the faint smell of smoke hangin’ where it shouldn’t. I finished my cigarette, ground the butt under my heel, and looked up at the clubhouse.
She was inside. Safe. For now. But that strange, crawlin’ feeling near the treeline hadn’t left me. Like somethin’ out there wasn’t done watchin’.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MORNING CAME SOFTand gray. The kind thatpretends to be peaceful until you notice how still everything is.
I woke with the sense that something was off before I even opened my eyes. The air in my room felt heavier, the kind of weight that only comes from knowing someone—or something—had been near.
I sat up slowly. The door was still locked, the window cracked just enough to let in the humid air. My bag sat where I’d dropped it the night before, half spilling open, my purse beside it. Nothing looked touched. But I knew better.
I reached for my jeans pocket, the one where I’d shoved the burned note. Empty.
For a long second, I just stared, heartbeat thudding in my ears. Then I upended the bag, shaking it out onto the bed. Lip balm. Keys. A few crumpled bills. No paper.
The note was gone.
I sat back, forcing slow breaths, trying to make sense of it. Maybe I’d dropped it. Maybe I’d thrown it away without thinking. But I remembered locking that door. I remembered the sound of the bolt sliding home.
“Get a grip,” I muttered. “You’re just tired.”
Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. A knock sounded from the hallway, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
