She stops spinning and sighs wistfully. “My father will be happy with anything I decide to do as long as I stick by his side.”
I notice how she doesn’t mention a mother, but I don’t press her about it tonight. That can be a conversation for another time.
I glance out the window to the darkened skies. “I should get going.”
“Text me details! I’m already on pins and needles wondering how this will unfold.” She unties her apron and tosses it behind the counter. “I’ll walk you out so that I can lock up.”
“I’m sure it will be uneventful. Or full of stories of me embarrassing myself. Nothing sincere and romantic, though. That’s a promise.”
The bell jingles above our heads as we open the glass doors to leave. After she locks the door, she embraces me. “Regardless, I think there might be something there. Please, do protect your heart. But also don’t be afraid to take risks and chances.”
I think over her words my entire drive home, which is only five minutes, but still.
Stone would ruin me. Iknowthat. It’s not a risk or a chance I can take. My attraction to him is through the roof, but it’s just that—attraction. There’s nothing real between us. Just a bunch of heat and hormones and hellish thoughts.
Maybe this fake girlfriend thing will be good. I can get him out of my system without consequence. I can experience what it would be like to hold his hand and maybe even kiss his lips without forming attachment.
Then, when we come back to Juniper Grove, I can resume my workplace professionalism like none of it ever happened. I can find myself a man who I can trust and is good to his core and will bemyprince.
Stone Harper will simply become an itch that I once scratched.
Though I’m an avid romance reader and pen novels myself, I’m not naïve. I know real life isn’t like the books. Fake dating situations don’t lead to more.
I’m safe.
Chapter 4
Stone
Iknock on the door once more, but after another minute of waiting, there’s still no sign of life. It’s 6:08 in the morning, indicating I’ve been at this for eight minutes.
“Lucy May!” I shout, rapping my knuckles against the white door. “We’ve got to go!” Humidity mingled with heightened nerves is not boding well for me as sweat beads roll down the back of my neck.
And no, the nerves are not because I am about to be in a vehicle for six hours with Lucy. I can manage that. They aren’t even because she’s going to meet my family as my girlfriend. I fully trust in her capabilities of playing pretend with me.
I’m a bundle of nerves because the woman won’t answer the door or her phone, and I’m halfway to the irrational conclusion that she’s dead inside this building. I lazily swat at the wilted plant inside a terracotta pot by the door as I exhale a long breath. I don’t have lockpicking skills, but surely it can’t be too hard?
If that doesn’t work, I might kick the door in, which neither of us will be happy about in the long run.
I try to call her again, but her phone goes straight to voicemail as if she has it turned off.Something could seriously be wrong and no one would know because she lives in this little space all by herself. Does she have medical issues? I should know this as her boss!
“Dang it, Lucy.” I curse under my breath, running a hand through my still-wet hair. I pound on the door and holler her name. “Is everything okay? I’m barging in soon if you don’t answer me.”
I swiftly look around the building, but no one seems to have poked their head out of their door to check out the chaos on the second floor. After attempting to call again and jiggling the golden knob one last time (maybe I didn’t turn it hard enough?), I take a couple steps back from the door. I’m leaning back against the metal railing that serves as a small balcony for the apartment, bouncing up and down and shaking out of my hands. “On the count of three, I’m kicking the door in, Lucy! One.” I kick out my feet to flex my ankles. “Two.” I dip into a little squat. “Three!” I extend my leg, and with as much force as I can muster, I kick the door.
Something cracks, but the door doesn’t give way. I use the adrenaline pumping through my veins to catapult my body into the door, using my strong side—my right shoulder—as the primary contact point. The door flies open, splinters showering around me as I stumble into the darkened room, breaths labored and heavy.
An ear-splitting female scream pierces me as something hard hits my face. I collapse to my knees when I hear a crunch and a waveof nausea overtakes me, something darker than blackness covering my vision.
Soft fingers run through my hair, gently massaging my scalp. On my forearm, another set of gentle fingers caress my skin, leaving a heat trail as they roam. The touch feels like it’s jolting my body, bringing back to life.
Because for some reason, I think I was dead.
Or a girl was dead.
I don’t know.
I think someone was dead or dying.
