Page 35 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake groaned, even as a pleased warmth soaked into her at the idea that, somewhere along the way, Monroe had picked up this little tidbit about her.

Blake Bettencourt - 8:05 p.m.

Before I realized how stressful being on stage was. I gave up pageants during high school. Much to my mother’s frustration.

While she waited for Monroe’s response, she moved into the kitchen and grabbed a yogurt from her fridge and a handful of granola from a container on her counter. She didn’t have the energy to cook something tonight, even though she knew that she’d regret that decision in the morning.

Cooking for one person was just as depressing as it sounded.

Monroe Lockhart - 8:06 p.m.

And yet here you are, molding the next generation . . .

Blake Bettencourt - 8:06 p.m.

Because Holland took pity on me and gave me a job.

At least I can put my decades of dance lessons to good use

Monroe Lockhart - 8:06 p.m.

Oh, I met her at the Wild West Fest. She was . . . intense

Blake laughed. That was putting it mildly. This town both fawned over and feared a woman like Holland Hayes.

Before she responded, she wandered over to the screen door and unlocked it. Quietly, she slipped outside.

Her back porch wasn’t much to look at. Just a cracked slab of concrete with a round, glass-topped table and a few chairs that the Jacksons had been kind enough to leave for her. In the backyard, farther back, there was a shed where a push mower and a few yard tools—also given to her—lived.

But, if she didn’t come outside in the evenings, it was rare that she spent much time outdoors. And even if her backyard was nothing like the oasis next door, which she couldn’t see due to the long line of tall, Italian cypress trees, it was still hers.

Noah couldn’t take it away from her, and that was something.

She frowned, thinking of Monroe again as another text came through.

Monroe Lockhart - 8:08 p.m.

Sorry if I shouldn’t have said that—you two are probably friends. I’m all over the place tn

Blake quickly shoved a too-big bite of yogurt and granola in her mouth so that she didn’t have to wait longer to respond.

Blake Bettencourt - 8:08 p.m.

It’s all good. She IS intense! But she’s been great to me, especially after the divorce. Definitely one of the good eggs in this town, as far as I’m concerned

Was that too much? She blew a strand of hair out of her face, staring down at her phone and shoveling in another bite like she hadn’t eaten in years. Teaching kids kept her moving from the second she walked in the studio door. If there had been a fast food restaurant on her route home, she would have happily stopped and shoveled in a few of whatever they were selling.

She was just about to sit down and really go to town on the rest of her yogurt when she heard what sounded like Monroe yelling, “Shit,” from her own yard.

Her own hunger quickly forgotten, she hopped off the porch and walked the ten or so feet to the trees that separated their yards.

It wasn’t that weird for her to walk over . . . again. Was it? She was literally texting with Monroe at this very moment.

At least, that was her reasoning as she pushed past one of the trees in order to pop out onto the other side, into an oasis that would have transfixed her if she hadn’t been singularly focused on the yelling that she’d just heard. “Monroe? You okay?”

It was strange. She’d definitely just heard Monroe, but she wasn’t sitting on the deck. In fact, she wasn’t anywhere in Blake’s line of sight.

“I’m up here,” a voice whispered.