She shook her head and remained silent.
“Your dog is sweet.”
“Taco’s the best.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Jesus, Sunday. What’s with the inquisition?” Ford gave his sister a look that spoke volumes. Back off. Then turned to Faith. “Sorry. She’s a sucker for the details.”
Sunday ignored her brother, and there was a subtle shift in her expression. “Isn’t that the new hire for the cottage restorations?”
Faith spied Walker chatting up none other than Cassidy, and her heart spiked. If Walker was here, it meant that Gus was probably close by.
“I believe so,” Ford murmured, following his sister’s gaze. “He kind of reminds me of—”
“He sure does,” Sunday whispered fiercely. She turned back to Faith, her smile no longer fresh but plastic. “It was nice to meet you, Faith, but Ford and I have this thing, and we’ve got to, um, get to it.”
Faith saw concern on her brother’s face. She had a feeling this ‘thing’ was a code word for ‘escape.’
“It was nice to meet you as well.” She waved at Ford. “I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again.”
He held her gaze a beat longer than was necessary, and she felt her cheeks heat up. “I look forward to it.”
The siblings disappeared, and Faith realized she was clutching at the drinks in her hands so tightly, her knuckles ached. Cassidy and Walker headed her way at about the same time the band took to the stage. It was close to nine-thirty, and the crowd was getting antsy.
The band leaned into a rollicking version of “American Woman,” and with Cassidy taking up all of Walker’s attention, she was able to scan the crowd unobserved.
“He’s not here,” Walker whispered in her ear with a wry grin. “Yet.”
“Excuse me?”
Walker chuckled. “God, you two are made for each other.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, you do.”
She didn’t get a chance to respond because Walker winked and turned his attention to the band. Faith decided to do the same. No sense in wondering about Gus’s whereabouts. For all she knew, he was paying a visit to Jackie Davenport’s place, celebrating a more intimate Fourth of July Eve. And she didn’t care about that.
At least, she shouldn’t.
As midnight approached, the crowds seemed to have gotten bigger. The band was well into their third and final set, and the dance floor was full. Faith stood at the edge of the party, feeling like an outsider. She should leave. Her eyes were on the moon that hung over the lake. By tomorrow night, it would be full, and there was magic in that. Or at least there used to be.
“Can you touch the moon, Mommy?”
“No sweetheart,” her mother replied. “Only Superman can.”
Her mother had been kind and loving at one point, hadn’t she? The memory snuck in, and, along with it, the kind of sadness that could cut her off at the knees if she let it. She pushed it away.
To her right, a young couple danced in the shadows, arms and mouths entangled as they slowly melted away. Had she ever been that free? That in love? Did she even miss Declan, or was it more the idea of him she missed? The sting of his rejection had hurt, but if she’d truly loved him, she suspected it would have hurt a hell of a lot more.
“What’s the point in wondering?” she whispered to herself. She was here, and Declan was in San Francisco, most likely spending the holiday at the country club with the people she used to consider friends.
Her heart heavy with self-pity and a bunch of other stuff she didn’t want to think about, Faith tossed the remnants of her drink into a nearby bin and turned to leave. It was then she saw him watching her from the edge of the crowd. Breath caught in her throat, she froze. She should ignore him. Go back to Lawson House, crawl under her covers, and forget about everything. Their eyes held for a few moments and with a hint of a smile on his handsome face, Gus walked toward Faith. And, helpless, she could do nothing but wait for him and try not to look as desperate as she suddenly felt. Her heart swelled in her chest, its beats faster than they should be.
How could it not be beating out of her chest when Gus looked as if he were thinking things he shouldn’t be? Dark things. Wicked things. Crazy things.
He stopped a few inches from her, his tall frame casually dressed in black jeans and an off-white, short-sleeved button-up. His thick, dark hair was combed back, and the shadows that caressed his face made him look more dangerous than ever. He sported the perpetual three-day stubble, and it was a look he should take to the grave.
