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What the hell was going on here?
“So serious,” she commented, refusing to be nervous. At times, her imagination ran wild, a product, her mother said, of all the fantasy stories she read.
“Will you join me?”
“Sure,” she said, sitting. “I’d planned to camp out here for the morning and read—”
“Until Kenton showed up?”
OK, that had gotten weird quick. Was he . . . jealous?
“Uh, well—”
He pointed down to his paper. A sticky note with The Witch’s Brew logo on top stared back at her.
We must talk. Privately.
What the hell?
He nodded toward the bathroom. She shook her head, annoyed by the whole cloak-and-dagger approach. If he had something to tell her, he should just speak already.
Lawrence nodded.
“I—”
“Forget I mentioned Kenton,” he said, interrupting her. “Enjoy your book.”
Now she was thoroughly confused. He was nodding once again toward the back of the store, where the bathroom was located, an action completely at odds with his words.
“I’m going to grab another coffee. Excuse me.”
As he took a step away from her, his eyes pleaded with her to join him.
Before she could question him further, he headed toward the back of the coffee shop. Was he nuts? She should probably run in the opposite direction. She certainly should not abandon her things to follow a virtual stranger into the bathroom of her favorite coffee shop. But of their own accord, her feet moved toward him.
She was nothing if not curious. Besides, if he wanted to murder her, wouldn’t he have done it on the running path and not inside a crowded shop?
“Lawrence, what the—”
When she reached the door, he pulled her inside with such force, she immediately knew she’d made the wrong decision.
“Shhh, I will not hurt you,” he whispered, putting his hand over her mouth. “But Kenton will. Please just listen to me.”
She had to be on Candid Camera. Or some other prank show. Things like this just did not happen in Stone Haven.
“Will you listen?”
She nodded—what choice did she have?—and he took his hand from her mouth.
“Why are you whispering?” she asked, amazed that this was the question she found herself asking.
“We don’t have much time, and you must whisper too.”
It struck her that the strangest part of this bizarre situation was her complete lack of terror. Here she was, trapped in the bathroom with a man who had biceps bigger than a tree trunk, who was spouting nonsense and acting like they were a part of some covert operation . . . and she wasn’t one bit scared.
“I cannot explain everything. If I did”—he frowned—“you would think me crazy.”
“Too late for that,” she muttered.
