My gaze turned to my right, following the voice to find a guy walking toward us with sharp cheekbones, fitted jeans, and a confidence I only wished I had. His auburn hair was styled to perfection, not a hair out of place.
He gave me a once-over, not aggressive but curiously. His lips curled, and I immediately decided I liked him. He had this aura that made me feel comfortable, perhaps too comfortable. I could see myself accidentally revealing too much about myself and the secrets I’d spent my life protecting.
“This is Atlas,” Paisley said, gesturing between us. “My emotional support human. Atlas, this is strawberry matcha or Mallory.”
“Oh, she’s cute.” Atlas held out a hand. “Fashion critic. Local menace. I like guys, hate liars, and will absolutely tell you if your outfit is wrong.” He paused, tilting his head as he examined my choice of ripped denim shorts and off-the-shoulder vintage bandtee I found in my mom’s closet. “You have an eye for clothes. We’re definitely going to be friends.”
I shook his hand, something I didn’t think I’d ever done with someone my age. “Mallory. Recently relocated. Emotionally unavailable but working on it.” I gave him my rundown the same way he had delivered his, thinking he would appreciate the banter. I was right.
“Oh, I already love you.” He released my hand and looped his arm through Paisley’s. “We’re keeping her. I’m calling it now.”
And just like that, the knot in my chest loosened.
“I told you.” Paisley’s eyes turned to me. “Atlas is my partner in crime. He begged to tag along. I hope that’s okay?”
“Of course.”
“I had to meet the new girl before all the vultures at Public get wind of her. Don’t worry, Pais and I will fight them off.” Atlas’s twinkling baby-blue eyes went to Paisley. “Whose number are we giving out?”
Paisley rolled her eyes. “My brother’s.”
“Okay, at least you have taste in guys,” Atlas said flirtatiously.
Paisley scrunched her nose. “She also has a thing for Maddox.”
“Who doesn’t? Besides you, obviously, but you don’t count.” Atlas gave Paisley a pointed look. “We’ve already established there’s something wrong withyourtaste in men.”
Paisley’s eyes rolled. “Whatever. Let’s go.” She held up a keyring hooked on her middle finger, a key dangling from it.
“You’re driving?” Atlas asked, his expression wary.
“Get in before I regret bringing you,” she told him, frowning.
Atlas flipped his hair. “As if anyone could regret my presence.”
Stepping off the curb onto the street, she glanced left and right for any cars. “Believe it or not, there’s more to Elmwoodthan this little square, as cute as it is. I’m going to show you the parts you don’t find on postcards or in tourist brochures.”
I followed beside her into the parking lot, Atlas on my other side. “Will there be food involved in this tour?” I asked as we came to an SUV that had seen better decades, but at least she had her own car.
“I love your priorities,” Atlas said, opening the passenger door for me before he claimed the back seat.
I slid into the car, the leather smelling faintly of vanilla air freshener and coffee.
Paisley cranked the windows down, the evening air rushing in warm and alive. “How do you feel about pasta?”
“It’s one of the basic food groups,” I retorted, fastening my seat belt.
She grinned, turning the engine over. “Exactly.” She drove us past downtown, away from the string lights and the carefully maintained charm, and into quieter streets and through older neighborhoods lined with houses in need of some love.
As we drove, Paisley pointed out places with the knowledge of someone who’d grown up here. “That pizza place?” She pointed to a storefront with a faded awning. “Best slices after ten p.m. when you’re too drunk to care about quality but sober enough to need carbs.”
“Don’t eat at the diner on Mondays,” Atlas piped up from the back seat. “The seafood special is whatever didn’t sell over the weekend.”
“The vintage shop on Third…” Paisley added. “The owner, Mrs. Peter, will absolutely try to sell you things that are haunted. She’s not joking. They’re actually haunted.”
Atlas picked up where she left off, gesturing toward a shop with crystals displayed in the window. “That new age store? Overpriced. The owner buys in bulk from Amazon and marks everything up three hundred percent. If you want actual goodcrystals, go to the place on Harbor Street. The woman who runs it is slightly feral but honest.”
“And that alley”—Paisley nodded toward a narrow passage between two buildings—“is where the local crews gunned each other down last year.”
