Page 37

"Deflect all you want, Damon Lockhart. I'm not gonna let this drop."

Their laughter followed me outside.

I emerged into the sunshine, which had climbed higher now, slicing through the haze and sending beams across the fields. I caught sight of my mother about fifty yards ahead, power-walking like she had a personal vendetta against standing still with her phone clamped between her shoulder and her ear, and a file folder under her arm.

I slowed, trying to decide if I could cut across the lawn and not be noticed, but of course that was impossible. I was a six-foot-four target in a white shirt. My mom had radar for any deviation from the routine.

She wore her uniform: jeans, muck boots, a faded flannel shirt, and a designer scarf that probably cost more than all my shirts combined. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair in a ponytail. She looked about half her age, and she knew it. Her eyes flicked from the cups in my hand to the brown paper bag, to the direction I was heading.

Typically, I enjoyed any interactions with my mom. She was one of my favorite people. No, scratch that. She was my favorite person.

Unfortunately, part of her charm was being a human lie detector. Maybe she’d acquired the skill raising four boys, or she was born with it. Whatever its origin, my mom could sniff out even a hint of bullshit.

I was nervous that when my new romance inevitably came up, she’d see right through me.

She intercepted me with a move that would’ve made my old football coach proud. “Good morning, son. Off to a meeting, or are you just kidnapping breakfast for yourself?

“Just bringing breakfast to a friend.”

Then she smiled.

The kind of smile that had made four Valentine boys confess to crimes she hadn't even known we'd committed. She should've worked for the CIA.

“Interesting. You know, I happen to hear from reliable sources that there’s a woman in your life now. A girlfriend, they say. Not a casual friend, not a one-night thing, but a real, honest-to-god girlfriend.” She said it with this odd mixture of pride and skepticism, like she was both impressed with me and also calling bullshit at the same time.

“Reliable sources, huh?” I repeated.

“So, are the rumors true?” she asked, raising her eyebrow higher. “And if so, how long have you been hiding this revelation from your own mother?”

“We just wanted to see where things went before telling anyone. She works with Deacon, and, you know, it’s complicated.”

She squinted at me, her eyes drilling right through to my soul. “So, it is serious.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not getting married next week.”

"Interesting. I didn't ask about marriage."

Damn it.

I kissed the top of her head and started walking.

"Love you!"

"Love you, too, sweetheart!" she called. "Tell Mikayla I said hello!"

I tried to act casual as I approached Mikayla’s cabin, even though every cell in my body was vibrating at a pitch usually reserved for high-tension power lines in a windstorm.

Calm.

Relaxed.

Like a man who hadn't spent the entire night fantasizing about kissing his fake girlfriend again.

I rapped on the door, maybe too softly, then hesitated with the coffee and brown paper bag in my grip like some kind of nervous catering intern. I was about to knock again when I heard a man’s voice from inside—deep, confident, familiar enough in tone to spike my blood pressure.

My good mood took a sharp left turn into oncoming traffic.

Which was stupid.