She looks like she expects the floor to open up beneath her at any second. Her shoulders are tense under her coat. Her cheeks are pink, but her eyes are sharp.
Not sharp like she’s hunting.
Sharp like she’s cornered.
Something in me goes still.
That’s when it happens. The shift.
The moment my brain stops thinking about the veterans’ roof and Evelyn’s meddling and how I’m going to escape this circus, and starts thinking one simple thought.
She’s not here for fun.
Evelyn’s voice floats behind me, too bright. “Paperwork in the back!”
I hate this transaction.
And I hate the way my gaze keeps dropping to the woman’s mouth like I’m starving.
This is what I get for being an idiot.
I didn’t even want to be in this auction.
I didn’t want to be in the calendar either.
But Evelyn Hartwood is a force of nature wrapped in pearls, and I learned a long time ago that some things hit harder than fists.
Guilt does.
Obligation does.
Back in December, I was standing outside Town Hall, minding my own business, when Evelyn came flying out the door like a missile.
“Maverick Rodgers,” she said, pointing at me like she’d caught me committing a crime. “Perfect.”
I should’ve turned around. I should’ve walked into the woods and never come back.
Instead, I did the stupid thing.
I paused.
“What?” I said, already regretting it.
She smiled. Not a sweet smile. A tactical one.
“We’re doing a fundraiser calendar,” she announced.
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, walking right up into my space like personal boundaries were a myth. “And before you growl at me, it’s for the veterans’ center.”
I stared at her.
She stared back like she lived for this.
“I don’t take pictures,” I said.
“You do,” she replied instantly. “You just don’t like it.”
