by Melissa West
“Now you look. I’m knee deep in chalk paint that I have next to no idea how to use. There’s a storm blaring away outside like a teething baby, and you keep calling here and hanging up. So either get to the slasher part and do me in, or stop freaking calling me because this lady has had enough!”
“Slasher part?”
Oh my God. Not him. Anyone but him.
“Do you in, huh?” Zac asked, his tone entirely too playful for the horror and embarrassment of the moment.
“It’s a turn of phrase.”
“It’s a phrase used by the insane, and not the legit kind either. What’s going on?”
Sophie cringed and threw her free hand into the air, then silently stomped up and down because the last thing she wanted to do was admit to Mr. Sarcastic that she was scared. But there it was on the tip on her tongue, threatening to spill all over her carefully crafted image.
“You know I can’t actually hear you saying stuff in your mind, right? You need to speak.”
“I know that, smarty pants. I’m just thinking of what to say.”
“Meaning you’re thinking up what to say.”
She chewed her thumbnail.
“How about you just go with the truth? It’s easier. Plus, I’m almost to your house now, so I’ll probably read it on your face even if you refuse to say it.”
“What?”
“I said I’m—”
“I heard what you said! I want to know why you’re doing it.”
“Well, when you call someone and they answer talking about slashers, one can only assume said person is completely freaked out. Which likely is for no reason, but I couldn’t live with myself if you became a victim. So I’m on my way. Almost there now.”
“You can’t come over here.”
“Why not?”
Sophie spun around in her kitchen to peek at her family room, then her breakfast nook/dining room, because her open floor plan didn’t include one of each. Her house was small even by small’s standard, but worse, it was barely lived in.
Her projects were scattered here and there, some half finished, others stacked together but never actually started. And then there was the rest of the house—boxes that had never been emptied, walls that had never been painted. It looked as though she planned to move away any second. Which was why she’d decided to paint her kitchen cabinets in the first place. Glenda always gave her a hard time about her bare white walls and boring furnishings, so Sophie flipped on Fixer Upper and sat on her coffee table and watched back-to-back episodes until she decided it was time she made her house a home.
That was six months ago, and now if she could just dedicate a few hours to each project, she would have the home she craved. But then work liked to get in the way, and there was that one week when she came down with the flu, and then that time—
Knock, knock, knock.
Sophie jumped. “Crap.”
“You know I can hear you through the phone and the door.”
“Right. I just need to . . .” Sophie hung up the phone, then set it down on the kitchen counter and began racing around the house, picking up old magazines and shoes left by the door. The crochet project strewn across her breakfast table because she’d planned to make a keepsake for Glenda’s sister who’d had a baby . . . three months ago. But she felt sure she’d get it to her soon. Surely before the baby graduated high school.
“Sophie, I can hear you in there.”
“Coming.”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think? Cleaning up.”
“I don’t care if the place is dirty.”
“I’m not cleaning the dirt. I’m cleaning the evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
Of how epically I fail at adulting.
Sophie thrust the pile of stuff in her hand into the coat closet, which had never once held a single coat. Then she reached for her front door’s doorknob, only to realize she was still wearing the gloves from painting. She yanked them off and shoved them into the closet with everything else. Finally she opened the door, a tad breathless and completely on edge, and there he stood—all T-shirt and cargo shorts, his hair a perfect mess, his skin freshly tanned from being out on the farm.
“God, you are beautiful.”
Wait, what? That was so not her speaking. How many times had Sophie refilled her wine glass?
“Um, what I meant to say was . . .” But there was no stopping the smile from splitting his face or him from easing past her and into her home.
“Right back at you, Marsh. How much have you had to drink?”
She held up one finger and squinted in thought. “Just the one glass.”
“Refilled how many times?”
She paused. “Um . . . more than once? But I’m not drunk. I’m just a little . . .” Buzzed—120 percent buzzed. And apparently unable to filter her thoughts. She needed to rein that in while Zac was here, or things were going to get awkward fast. Especially if she started talking about his tattoos and muscles, which she couldn’t seem to stop staring at.
Dear God . . .
“What are you doing here?”
“You said a slasher was calling you.”
And now her embarrassment went from her head to her toes. She tried to laugh it off. “Right. See, about that—”
But just as she started to explain that she’d watched that Netflix Making a Murderer show last night and felt sure it had invaded her subconscious and made her worry about other things, because it couldn’t be other things—couldn’t—her phone rang again.
“See,” she said, flinging her hand at the phone on the counter as evidence. “I told you. They won’t stop calling me, and you know I’m not popular enough around here for so many phone calls.”
“Okay, calm down. I’m sure it’s just a telemarketer who’s too scared to speak up or something. Let me answer it.”
Zac walked over and picked up the phone. He waited a beat and then said, “Hello?”
He held the phone out. “Hang up.”
“That’s the third one.”
Zac wasn’t admitting that he believed her, but she could tell by the way his eyes drifted to the kitchen windows, then the family room windows, that he found it peculiar.
“Ever have these calls before?”
Sophie’s thoughts drifted back to six months earlier, to the constant feeling that he was watching her, always a breath away from appearing in her path. “No.”
“Well, let me do a perimeter check just to be safe.”
“A what? No. It’s dark out, and there’s this possum that likes to come out and bark at me when I go outside too late.”
Now Zac pivoted around to face her, his arms crossed as that smile of his revealed two dimples. “Possum? So first a serial killer who likes to prank call, now a man-eating possum. Don’t know who you pissed off in the universe, Marsh, but I’d suggest you fix that stat. Or, you know, watch less Netflix and Discovery Channel.”
“How did you . . . ?”
He cocked his head and studied her. “I see more than you think.” Then he nodded toward the door and disappeared outside with his phone’s flashlight on.
Now Sophie was the chicken, hiding inside while the guy she was fake dating, for-real crushing on, checked her house when she knew deep down it was all in her head.
Her therapist claimed that paranoia was a normal defense mechanism, to not feel bad about it. But every time Sophie peered over her shoulder only to find her own shadow chasing her, she felt less and less in control of her life.
It had taken all of her strength to leave him, to take the cash she’d hidden over the years in their basement—to start over. She had arrived on Nana’s front porch in Crestler’s Key with nothing but a tote bag full of cash and a new sense of pride.
Nana took her in with a warm hug, even though it had been three years since Sophie had seen her—which was so Sophie could protect the one person she loved. He didn’t know Nana existed, didn’t know to track Sophie to Crestler’s
Key. She would be safe here, get a new start.
And Sophie had done well here, despite everyone hating her. She’d counted that cash and discovered she’d saved three thousand dollars over the years, which wasn’t massive wealth, but it had brought tears to Sophie’s eyes all the same.
So when Nana mentioned that old Freddie Rochester was selling his farm for next to free, Sophie went to the bank, secured a loan, and scooped it up before the For Sale sign had been firmly stuck in the dirt.
She was living her life now, all on her own. Even though she still didn’t have the right face shape. And it took smoothing three Aveda creams through her hair before it agreed to behave. And she had to choose A-line skirts instead of pencil ones to hide her baby-bearing hips. She was a stronger person now, flaws and all.
With a deep breath and a decision to forget the calls and the eerie feeling they conjured, Sophie went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer for Zac and another glass of wine for herself; if she planned to walk the buzz line, she might as well see it to the end.
Closing the refrigerator, Sophie turned back toward the family room to set out the drinks when she heard a loud bang, bang, bang on the back door. Startled, both the wine glass and beer bottle slipped from her grasp, and then a scream lodged in her throat as her mind jumped back to the day it all came to an end, the sounds of shattering glass as clear as day.
Her body shook violently, her eyes wide and her teeth clenched so tight that at first she didn’t register that Zac was at the door, the laugh he’d released cut short by a look of concern.
“Hey . . . it’s just me. Sophie, look at me.”
Sophie, look at me.
She shook her head to clear the voice.
“It’s me, Sophie. Look at me.”
Look at me.
She closed her eyes to push back the fear building inside her. She was over this. Over it. Why couldn’t her memories leave her alone?
“Sophie—”
“Stop!” And then, as though her own shout had yanked her back to the present, she started, her breathing heavy and her heart hammering. Sophie’s hands shook as she covered her eyes, then ran them down her cheeks, and with all the control of a person seconds away from tears, dropped them back to her side. “I’m sorry.”
But Zac was no longer by the back door. He must have freaked out and left.
Resigned, Sophie dropped to her knees to pick up the larger pieces of glass when strong hands eased around her arms and lifted her back up, fixing her to a chest that promised safety.
“It’s okay.” Zac’s arms wrapped tighter around her, holding her to him. But it wasn’t until he whispered in her ear that he wasn’t going anywhere that the muscles in her body finally relaxed and she collapsed into him, her pride on the floor somewhere with the broken glass.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what . . .”
“It’s nothing. Just take a breath,” he said, his arms still around her.
Sophie felt such intense contentment and comfort in his embrace that she didn’t ever want to leave. Maybe she could ask him to hold her for a bit longer, just until the fear subsided, or maybe forever. But she knew she couldn’t do that, not now and not ever.
So she lifted her head and prayed she hadn’t started crying without realizing it.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have scared you when you were already rattled. But then, something tells me it isn’t me that’s causing you to tremble right now.” His gaze dropped to Sophie’s hands, shaking so badly she looked like an addict who’d missed her last fix.
Quickly she tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Cheap scare is all.”
But Zac continued to watch her, not buying a lick of it. “All right. Well, why don’t you go take a load off. I’ll clean this up, get us some more drinks, and you can explain why you have crates in one corner of your family room and a wagon wheel in the other.”
She grimaced. “Oh that.”
“Yeah, see, I should have warned you that I have an epic problem. Serious personality flaw stuff here.”
Sophie glanced purposefully from Zac’s eyes to his toes and then back. “Yeah . . . not seeing it.”
He laughed as he took a slow step toward her, biting his lip for effect and drawing Sophie’s gaze there. Already she was relaxing, and the man had barely spoken to her. The way he made her feel safer without doing anything was unnerving.
“That’s all superficial stuff. Real flaws live in here.” He tapped his chest, dead center.
Sophie thought she had never met anyone who saw himself so clearly. If anything, Sophie suspected Zac was even better on the inside than on the outside. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it, so instead she said, “Okay, I’m listening.”
“See, that”—he pointed to the crates and then the wagon wheel—“is a problem for me. I’m a perpetual finisher. If I see an incomplete project, I have to finish it. It’s like a complex puzzle dying to be solved, and I’m the crazy man who’ll do the solving. So you go sit down, and I’ll clean this up, and then you can explain to me how we can finish these projects tonight. Because I sure as hell can’t leave here until they’re done.”
Sophie smiled at him, and he smiled back. For the first time, Sophie thought she might have gained a friend in Crestler’s Key, other than Glenda.
Taking a seat in her family room, she watched as Zac grabbed the broom and dustpan and trash can from the pantry, all without asking where anything was stashed—as if he already understood her home and how he could fit in. And then he bent over to sweep it all up, and heaven help her. He turned around before Sophie could lift her gaze, and a wide smile broke across his face.
“Should I turn back around? Give you some additional viewing time?”
“What? I—no. I wasn’t—no.”
He winked. “Sure you weren’t.” Then he nodded toward the crates, saving her from more embarrassment. “Why don’t you grab that stuff and bring it around to the couch? I’ll be right there.”
A strange feeling that she couldn’t quite describe moved over Sophie, something that felt a lot like normalcy, but it had been far too long since she’d felt normal for her to be able to identify the feeling.
She pushed aside her current coffee table, which was one wrong move away from cracking a leg and falling apart, then brought around the four crates she’d brought home from the farm and a large sheet of plywood.
She set the crates on the floor, their light-colored wood bright against the dark wood floors. Then she laid out the sheet of plywood, the bolts, and the printouts of how to put the thing together.
After she had it all set out, she took a step back and stared at the apparent pile of junk just as Zac approached, his elbow brushing her arm, sending a flurry through her belly that made her far happier than it should have.
He scratched his head with his other arm. “So this is supposed to be . . . what exactly?”
“A coffee table.”
His eyebrows shot up as he looked at her. “Seriously? Not like planters or something?”
“Nope, a coffee table. I thought you were Mr. Finisher.”
“I finish. Every time.” A glint of mischievousness flashed in his eyes, and then he laughed as her cheeks burned pink. “Sorry, I can’t seem to help it around you. But I’ll be good now.”
“Seems to me you’re always good.” Their eyes met, and Sophie melted a little under his gaze. “You know, when you’re not being an arrogant jerk.”
He chuckled again. “Well, nobody’s perfect, right?”
Right, only Sophie wasn’t so sure that a certain farmer wasn’t damn close.
“All right, so it’s after eleven. You up for this?”
She nodded as she pointed at herself. “Night owl here. But what about you? Where’s Carrie-Anne?”
“Tomorrow is a teacher workday, and she had a lesson at my sister’s, so she’s staying the night.”
“What kind of lesson?”
&nbs
p; “Riding.”
“Hamilton Stables is into a little horse racing or something, right?”
Zac grinned. “I’m going to take you there so you can repeat that to them. Word for word, all right? I’d pay good money to see their reactions.” He chuckled again. “But yeah, they do a little horse racing. Not sure if you follow the Triple Crown, but their horse won the Derby last year, won the Triple Crown a year or two ago as well. They’re the best.”
“Seems a little boring if you ask me. Who wants to be the best all the time?”
“Um . . . you?”
Sophie grimaced. “Point taken.” And they laughed before sitting on the floor to go over the instructions.
“Do you have all the tools to do this?”
“Yeah, in the garage. I bought them when I decided I wanted to build this.”
“You bought power tools so you could build a table? You know it would have been cheaper to buy a new coffee table, right?”
“Now what fun is that?” It was her turn to wink as she popped up and went to the garage, rummaged through the various tools she’d purchased over the last six months, and then returned with a power screwdriver. “Will this work?”
Zac looked impressed as he took the screwdriver from her. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
For the next hour, they alternated between talking about nonsense and falling into a comfortable silence as they worked on the table, Zac occasionally directing Sophie to hold this or do that. More than once she found her eyes drifting his way, eager to watch the concentration on his face as he held a screw or bolt in his mouth while he fixed two pieces together, then screwed them together. She had suspected he would be handy, most farmers were, but watching it was something else entirely.
A few more minutes passed, and finally Sophie decided to ask the question she’d longed to ask since she first met Zac.
“So, I was wondering . . .”
He turned the table over and directed Sophie to hold one of the wheels in place so he could screw it to the base. “You were wondering what happened to Carrie’s mom.”
“I’m sorry. You probably get that all the time, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. Sophie feared she’d crossed the line, when he glanced over at her. “But I don’t mind that you asked. She left.”
