Page 13
Serena: OMG IS HE HOT
Lila: First of all, rude. Second of all, yes. It was deeply unprofessional of him to be that unfairly attractive while looking so genuinely annoyed by my presence.
Calla: Amazing.
Serena: I hate that for you.
Calla: No, you don’t.
Serena: Okay, I don’t, but I hate what it means for us, which is that we’re going to have to listen to Lila freak out about this for the foreseeable future and then not take any of the advice we give her because she’s fucking Lila.
Calla: Oh, 100%. She’s already in too deep.
Lila: I AM NOT.
Serena: Sweetie. You fake-dated him before he even agreed to help you.
Calla: If that’s not self confidence, I don’t know what is.
2
TRACE MEMORY
LILA
If the past twenty-four hours have made anything clear, it’s that Theo Grayson is absolutely not built for a road trip, however short.
At least not one where I’m driving.
“You’re a menace,” he grips the armrest like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this mortal plane. His knuckles have gone white, his forearms flexing with the effort—dusted with just the right amount of dark hair, veins prominent. Arms that look carved from tension and capable of very specific, very illegal things.
Not that I noticed.
I’m pretty sure if he clenches his jaw any harder, his molars might actually crack under the pressure.
I merge onto the highway with practiced ease and say with fake innocence, “Relax, Professor. I’ve only almost killed us once.”
“That is not funny.”
Outside, spring is trying to make up for the misery of winter. Patches of snow still linger in shaded ditches, but the rest of the landscape is softening—grass pushing through frost-stiffened earth, forsythia blazing yellow along stone walls, and sugar maples tipped in the faintest green.
The air has that restless clarity you only get in March, everything still half-frozen and damp, the sky a pale blue that almost looks unfinished.
Bellwood always wakes up slowly after winter, resenting the thaw in its own subtle way, but the town settles into the season the same way it settles into every old tradition. White-steepled churches get their pastel bunting, the green hosts its first tentative farmer’s market stalls, and gossip shifts from being traded over snow shovels to being traded over seed packets.
We pass the weatherworn sign that boasts Founded 1736, its peeling paint made brighter by the cluster of hellebore someone’s planted at its base.
The Mayfair estate waits just beyond the outskirts of town, tucked behind budding elms, its reputation as stubborn and enduring as the town itself. Bellwood doesn’t let go of its history easily, not even in spring. Every new season shows how much of the past is still sitting in plain sight.
Theo doesn’t seem to be paying attention to any of it. He’s too busy digging fingernail grooves into my leather seat.
“To be fair, that truck came out of nowhere.” I’m actually an excellent driver, and he can kiss my ass. I consider making things worse by revving the engine just a little, but I decide to be merciful. For now.
I sigh. “Okay, fine. I promise to drive marginally safer. But only because I don’t want your tragic death on my conscience.”
His gaze flicks to me, unimpressed. “Comforting.”
He nixed me being in charge of the aux in my own effing vehicle less than twenty minutes into the trip, so the car settled into silence aside from the steady hum of the tires against the pavement. It’s not exactly awkward, but there’s something hanging between us, something unspoken curling in the air like an unfinished sentence.
