Chapter Eight

Aria

As I walked across the lawn, I touched my pocket one more time to make sure I had the money.

Five hundred dollar bills were still up at the great house, tucked into the now three-quarters empty box of instant mashed potatoes.

I’d squirreled away money like that for years. I pressed my lips together in a tight line as I wistfully recalled the thousands I’d stashed in the envelope taped to the bottom of my underwear drawer. I’d planned on leaving just as soon as it was fat enough.

Running for my life, in the middle of the night, was never part of that plan.

And now that eight hundred had to last me, so I couldn’t show my hand all at once.

Three hundred. That was as high as I would go. And I prayed Derek wouldn’t ask for more.

I raised my hand to knock on the door, but it flew open before I could strike it.

I blinked and recovered myself fast enough to smile blandly. “Were you waiting for me or something?”

“What do you want?”

“Besides seeing you pack up a moving truck?” I waved my hand airily. I was acting the part of the spoiled celebrity he’d pegged me for. And with my belly full it was easy to slip into the role. I just had to forget that my belly was full of gluey mashed potatoes. “Not much. But I thought we could have a little chat.”

He gave a shrug full of supreme disinterest. I wondered if he was playing a part, too. “Why not?”

He didn’t step aside to let me in, so I had to squeeze past him, brushing up against his skin and the warmth that radiated from him. I held my breath, but still caught a whiff of something woodsy and spicy and completely appealing.

I rushed into his kitchen and sat down without asking.

Derek gave me an amused look as I slid my fingers under my thighs. It was an old habit I’d picked up to keep from biting my nails.

Within seconds, though, my hand had slipped out and my finger was sliding up to my teeth.

I swiveled in my chair. “Nice place,” I said casually.

In truth, it was much more than nice. It was jaw-droppingly gorgeous and not at all how I remembered the carriage house. The ceilings swooped in an arc above us, twenty feet high in the center and the light of the lowering sun trapped motes of dust that danced crazily.

The dusty storage space of my youth had been transformed into one great room with different niches carved out of it.

Near the front of the house, where I sat now, a beautiful kitchen lined the wall, with a restored antique oven, range, and a deep farmhouse sink.

In the corner sat a table that looked like it had been built from the same gray-stained planks as the exterior of the carriage house.

In the far corner, half hidden behind a privacy screen, peeked a rumpled bed.  

And in the other corner, under a huge window that framed a view of the lake, sat a desk topped with three wide-screen monitors.

In the very center of the room, atop a tiled platform, loomed a huge old potbellied wood stove.

“What’s behind there?” I asked, gesturing to the one long wall. Old stable doors ran in sliding panels along the whole expanse and I couldn’t help but notice the great big padlock holding it all closed.

“You’re a lot more nosy than your grandfather,” he observed drily.

“Just trying to get an idea of what my neighbor is up to.”

“Your neighbor is making dinner,” he growled, turning to his refrigerator and crouching down.

My stomach growled, protesting the leaden ball it was being asked to digest. I drummed my nail against my teeth. “So you’ve done your grocery shopping for the week, already?” I hoped I sounded less desperate than I felt.

He stood up, but didn’t answer.

“The month, then? Are you like one of those survivalist guys, now? Living off the land and dehydrated rations?

He exhaled wearily. “What are you getting at, Aria?”

I licked my lips. “Nothing, just making small talk. You know what small talk is?”

“Never cared for it,” he grumbled.

But at least he was answering me.

I sat up straighter, trying to hold myself together as he cracked three eggs into a bowl. Focus, Aria.

I blurted out the first thing I could think of. “Do you still hang out with Nick Butler?” I hadn’t thought about that name in years, but it popped onto my tongue with no effort. “What’s he up to these days?”

Derek shrugged again.

“Huh. You guys were close too.”

“Yeah.”

“How about,” I thought for a second. “Jesse Klingman?”

He stiffened a little and shook his head again, this time more fervently.

I narrowed my eyes. “Do you still hang out with any of the old crowd?”

He turned to face me and brushed his hand down his face, pulling his lips down into a frown. “No,” he said. Then he turned back to the range.

I kicked my feet. Who was this quiet, reserved version of Derek Granger? It was like I’d fallen into some parallel universe. “You and your crew. Swaggering around here all tough. What happened to you guys? Did you have a fight or something?”

His ears were really red now. I regretted pushing so hard. But it was too late. “I stopped drinking,” he snapped. “That’s what happened.”

“Oh,” I exhaled. “Right.”

“Okay, my turn,” he said irritably, whisking the eggs so hard I was afraid the bowl would break. “How about you tell me something?”

I was instantly on my guard. “Tell you what?”

"The story. About why you’re here.”

“You mean here, in this room?”

“That’s a good place to start.” He poured the eggs into the smoking pan on the stove.

I let my shoulders drop. “I need food.”

He gestured towards the door. “Town’s that way. Turn left at the bottom of the driveway and just keep heading down.”

I shook my head. “It’s not… a good idea for me to go by myself.”

“Why not?”

I seized on a sudden inspiration. “I’ll get mobbed. By paparazzi.”

“Is that right?” He raised a dark eyebrow.

“Sure is.”

He regarded me steadily. His eyes were much darker than I remembered, a dark brown almost as black as his irises.

I crossed my arms protectively across my chest, then shifted in the chair. And as I did, I let out an involuntary gasp at the pain in my ribs.

Derek turned away. The muscle at his jaw ticked like a metronome.

“Derek?”

“Yeah.”

“Your eggs.”

Smoke rose from the pan. He whirled around with a curse.

After he scraped the smoking ruin of his omelet into the garbage, he paused and stared out the window, his back still turned to me.

“I don’t go into town in the day time,” he said finally.

I swallowed down the Why? that immediately sprang to my lips. “Okay.”

“So you’ll have to wait.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“You have a list?”

“Yes.”

“Only the basics, right? I’m going to the IGA, not Whole Foods or whatever you’re used to.”

“I’m not picky.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “No?”

I spread my hands in surrender. “Guess I can’t be, in my position.”

He sniffed. “Money?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

Here was the kicker. “How much do you want?”

“Give me the list.” He scanned the paper I handed him. “Shouldn’t be more than sixty.”

I blinked. “Wait, you’re not charging me to get it?”

“Should I be?”

I faltered. “I don’t know. I guess that’s… your call.”

He ran his tongue along his bottom teeth. “Paparazzi’s a real bitch to live with, I’d imagine.” He said it softly. Like he was playing along.

I sighed in gratitude. “Yeah. Makes it nearly impossible to leave the house.”

He nodded again. “You’re afraid of who you might run into?”

I blinked, then blinked again, struggling to find a way to casually brush it off, all while he watched me with those dark, dark eyes. He knew. “I’d feel much safer,” I finally managed. “Staying here.”

“Yeah.”

“But I’m not a charity case, Derek.”

“Never said you were.”

“Don’t do this ‘cause you feel like you have to.”

He grinned wickedly. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to, Princess.”

“And I can pay you…” I paused, “I mean, give you gas money and whatever. A delivery fee.”

He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of eggs. “I’m not a charity case either,” he said quietly. He cracked three eggs into the bowl, then paused before holding one up for me to see. “Now. What do you want in your omelet?”