by Pippa Grant
But Ryan just…walked away.
He made sure I was alive, shook his head at me like I was the one who’d broken his heart, and. Walked. Away.
No looking back.
Tears rising in my eyes for the tenth time since I left the hospital, I dig into my cupcake with my already icing-sticky fork. Better enjoy sweet treats and my freedom while I have them.
By the end of the day, the sheriff could have a warrant for my arrest.
“Don’t cry,” Ruthie May says, patting my hand from across the table. “We’re going to take care of this. Savannah’s lawyer is the best in the state. You know that. That’s how she got away from Steve with all her money still in her bank account.”
“Deborah’s a shark,” Maud agrees. “She’ll take care of you, honey.”
“But she’s not a criminal attorney.” I sniff hard, refusing to start sobbing again. My lungs are strained after all the smoke inhalation, my throat raw, and my eyes itchy enough without adding tears to the mix. “She’s just coming to chat as a favor to Savannah. I’ll have to find someone else to represent me if I’m actually arrested.” I press my lips together, throat working as I fight for control.
But the fact that the words “warrant for arrest” might soon apply to me is too much.
I’m a rule follower. A law-abiding nerd from way back. I’ve never had so much as a parking ticket. And now, thanks to Savannah’s evil ex, I might be going to jail.
“And I don’t even smoke,” I whisper. “I’ll have nothing to trade for protection in prison.”
“You are not going to prison,” Gerald says firmly. “I’ll wring a confession out of Steve with my bare hands before that happens.”
I shift my gaze to the big man with the kind eyes and smile. “Thank you, Gerald. I appreciate your support.”
“Of course,” he says, looking flustered by my gratitude. “A fair fight is one thing. But when one side starts playing dirty, decent people have to stand up for what’s right. I don’t want to live in a town with a sex toy factory, but I want to live in a town where innocent women go to jail even less.”
“You’re a good man, honey,” Maud says, her eyes shining. “I always knew you’d come around.”
“Speaking of coming around,” Ruthie May murmurs, nodding toward the picture window looking out onto the street. “Looks like someone’s pulled his head out of his backside.”
I turn to see Ryan—looking gorgeous in faded jeans and a tight red tee shirt—pushing in through the door to the bakery. Immediately my heart pumps faster for reasons having nothing to do with the cupcake-fueled sugar rush laying claim to my system.
I meet his eyes across the room, steeling myself against the stupid wish that we could go back to how things were a few hours ago.
He left me. Right when I needed him the most.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
His blue eyes are soft. Searching. And something that looks a lot like regret tightens his features as I double down on the resolve to be strong for myself this time.
“Can we talk? Maybe…outside?” he asks. “Please?”
“I don’t think we have anything left to say to each other.” The words hurt like ripping off a bandage. I thought heartbreak was bad when I was a teenager, but this is worse. So much worse.
“Cassie—”
“Please leave.” It’s killing me to stay strong, but when you discover the person you love doesn’t care enough to be at your side through better or worse, the only thing to do is to get out while you can.
“I know you didn’t set the fire,” Ryan says.
I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice when I reply, “Oh, really? So you were just pretending like I did to protect me? Because you care so much?”
He hangs his head and rubs a hand over his jaw like he’s feeling a fresh bruise, like I physically slapped him. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Jessie had just played me this phone conversation between you and Savannah and—”
“What? What phone call? Jessie recorded my private calls?”
“What in the hell is this world coming to?” Gerald growls. “Last time I checked, this wasn’t a surveillance state!”
Ryan holds a hand up. “Someone sent it to the sheriff, who shared it with Jessie. I don’t know who, but I can guess.” He sighs. “Olivia told me about you seeing Steve’s shoes. He probably—”
“So you believe Olivia, but you couldn’t even stay and talk to me?” Now I feel like I’m the one being slapped in the face.
Over and over. With a sock stuffed with a brick. Or concrete dildos.
“You need to leave.” My voice is stronger this time, even though my heart is crumbling into pieces.
He’s not the man I thought he was. The man I wanted to believe he was.
I almost hope the sheriff does come and arrest me.
There’s no chance I’ll fall in love with anyone in prison.
“Cassie, please, I—”
“The lady asked you nicely,” Gerald says.
“More than nicely,” Maud agrees.
“I think you best be gettin’ on,” Ruthie May chimes in. “I’ve always liked you, Ryan. Don’t make me change my mind.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but instead, he turns, shoulders drooped, and heads for the door.
I barely keep the sob in check until the bells stop jingling behind him.
“Aw, honey,” Maud says.
Ruthie May squeezes my hand.
And Gerald quietly sets another muffin before me.
It’s heartbreak medicine, and I’m going to need a lot more before I’m healed.
If I ever heal.
Thirty
Ryan
* * *
I’m done letting Cassie down. I’m going to fix this. All of it.
Her being framed for trying to destroy Sunshine.
People judging her and Savannah because of Sunshine.
That broken look on her face when I told her about Jessie and Olivia and Steve.
I’ll prove to her that she comes first for me, no matter what it takes. Starting with the sheriff.
I track him down outside the factory, where today’s shift is still doing recon on the fire that took out the east wing. “Sheriff. Cassie didn’t do this.”
Briggs lifts an uninterested brow. “I think you’re thinking with parts of you best left out of this discussion.”
“She saw Steve—”
“She told me her story.”
My jaw slips, because it’s clear he thinks she’s lying. “Have you talked to Steve yet?”
“Son, how I do my job is none of your damn business.”
“I can’t believe this.” I shake my head. “You’re believing a guy who fucked a sheep over Cassie? Just because she’s running a sex toy factory?”
“I didn’t find any evidence of a sheep being violated by Steve Bennington.”
“Because the sheep didn’t report it?” I scoff.
He ignores my sarcasm. “Steve’s been an upstanding member of the community for years. A lot longer than this wart on our community has been here, that’s for sure. Happy Cat ain’t the place for a sex factory.”
“That’s not your call to make,” I say, voice tight. “And you owe it to the entire town to get to the truth.”
He puts a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “Them Sunderwell girls really know how to screw a guy up good, don’t they? But you’ll be all right, son. Give it a few days, then come on over to the house. The missus wants you to meet our Geri Lynn. She’s home from college, got her bachelors of fine arts and everything.”
I shake his hand off.
If he won’t investigate Steve, I’ll have to do it for him.
I call my brothers for backup, and they meet me at my house with Olivia in tow. Olivia and Jace keep casting covert, longing glances at each other when the other isn’t looking, and it’s getting a little weird, but I have bigger issues to sort out than whatever’s going on b
etween them.
For once, I’m putting my problems first.
No, I’m putting Cassie first.
The way it should be.
“We need his shoes,” Blake says. “If he was at the factory, they’ll probably have the lighter fluid all over them.”
“Accelerant,” I mutter. “We don’t know exactly what it was yet.”
“How the fuck are we going to get his shoes?” Jace asks.
“I’ll just go ask him to borrow them,” Olivia says. “For a friend who’s coming into town or something.”
Jace looks at her. She glances at the family photo I have hanging over the couch, then stares down at her feet as she adds, “I can be persuasive. When I need to be.”
“But you’re his ex-wife’s best friend,” Jace points out.
“Exactly. He’s used to—oh.” Olivia’s shoulders slump. “Right. He won’t talk to me, let alone give me evidence. Of course he won’t.”
“Forget asking for his shoes.” I pace my living room, past the metal raccoon faces I welded and hung on the wall for George, because the little scavenger has an ego. “We need to take them. Or something that proves he’s behind this.”
“They won’t be admissible in court if you steal them,” Blake points out.
All three of us look at him.
He grins. “What? I like crime shows.”
George wanders into the room, fat and forlorn. He misses Cassie too.
I’ve ruined the best relationship my raccoon ever had.
I’m about to switch on The Cat Whisperer for him when a diabolical idea strikes.
The one thing George loves even more than The Cat Whisperer?
Scavenging.
I squat down next to him and bat away the gnawed-on butt plug he’s carrying. “George, you want to see Cassie again?” I ask.
He cocks his head, but remains skeptical.
“She needs your help, buddy.”
“You have seriously lost every last ounce of your shit,” Jace says.
“Hold on, hear him out,” Blake replies. “I want to see where this is going.”
“You in?” I ask George. “Might be a little tricky getting you to grab something that’s not shaped like a vibrator or a penis pop, but…”
“Oh, dear.” Olivia sighs. “I have an idea where this is going.”
Jace arches a brow her way, but she just shakes her head. “Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough.”
I smile. He will find out.
So will Steve, the asswipe arsonist.
And he’s never going to see this one coming.
An hour later, Blake, George, and I are creeping through the woods behind Steve’s house. We left Jace behind because if we get caught he can’t afford another run-in with the law. We left Olivia behind because she confessed she couldn’t be trusted not to blast Steve with impotence spritz, and we’re not out to physically damage him.
Even though he deserves it.
“This is insane,” Blake says. He’s smiling, though, and I almost work up a smile in return.
Almost.
“You ready, George?” I ask, setting him down at the edge of Steve’s impeccably manicured lawn.
He chirps, bobbing a paw in the air.
I unhook his leash and point to the cans beside house. “Go on. Go find something good in the trash.”
“Completely nuts,” Blake adds with a bigger grin. “But you’re right, my Google Fu proves there’s no precedent on evidence obtained by trash panda.”
“See? I think brilliant was the word you were looking for.”
We hunch in the timber behind the brick ranch while George waddles across the yard until he reaches the trash cans beside the house. In three quick leaps, he’s teetering on the smaller recycling can while he lifts the lid on the big trash can a sliver and dives in, leaving it to drop closed behind him.
“I can’t believe you sleep with that,” Blake mutters.
“He washes up before he gets in bed.”
Something moves inside, behind one of the windows, and I drop flat against the ground.
“What’s he doing home?” Blake whispers. “I thought he always spent Sundays at his parents’ house?”
“Destroying evidence?” I suggest.
The back door opens, and Steve steps out onto the wooden deck. He’s in a white button-up and khakis and wearing a ridiculous pair of aviator glasses that do not make him look like a young Tom Cruise, I don’t care what his latest booty call told him. The sight of his stupid face makes rage boil through my veins. He made a serious mistake in judgment today, one that could’ve killed Cassie.
Being behind bars might be too good for him.
I’m so busy fighting the urge to charge and toss him in the trash can that I almost miss the sack of garbage swinging from his hand.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
Now I’m the asshole who both didn’t believe Cassie and put my raccoon on a collision course with douchebag danger.
Blake grabs my shoulder before I can move. “Wait. George has this.”
Steve flips open the trash can lid. He swings the bag inside without looking down and slams it closed again. Then he grabs the handle on both the recycling and the larger can—inside which my raccoon is probably freaking the hell out—and drags them down his driveway.
He drags and drags, while my heart slams against my ribs like a wrecking ball because any second I expect George to leap from the can and blow our cover, and our chances of getting the evidence to put Steve away, all to hell.
But miraculously, the bin stays closed. All the way down the driveway until Steve arranges them neatly on the street. The dickweed waits another breath-stealing moment, stretching his arms over his head like he’s just finished moving something a hell of a lot heavier than bins on wheels, and then ambles back into the house, using the front door this time.
“Damn, that was close,” I hiss as Blake exhales audibly beside me.
Not four seconds after the front door closes with an audible whump, George bursts from the can bearing loot slung around his neck. It looks like some sort of bag, or maybe…
“Is that a fanny pack?” Blake asks as George hustles back our way, looking pleased with himself.
I’m proud of him for obediently playing fetch for one of the first times in his life, but I can’t help but be disappointed in his find. Of all the incriminating things he could have potentially grabbed, Steve’s fanny pack isn’t high on the list.
Embarrassing as hell, but not a criminal offense.
“We’ll have to send him back,” I whisper to Blake, even as I pinwheel an arm and smile at George, coaxing him back to the tree line. “Later. After Steve hopefully gets his ass to his parents’ house.”
“No we don’t,” Blake says, nudging my arm. “Not according to the Supreme Court ruling on California vs. Greenwood.”
I frown his way. “When did you get a law degree?”
“I watch Law and Order reruns when I can’t sleep,” he says. “And according to California vs. Greenwood, law enforcement can search trash left at the curb without a warrant. It’s outside the curtilage, you see.”
“I have no idea what that is, but if you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” Blake tugs his phone out of his back pocket as George reaches our hideout. “I’ll call the sheriff, tell him to get his ass out here right now.”
“He won’t come.” I scoop George up, scratching his neck in silent praise. “Not without probable cause, and he’s determined not to find any. He and Steve are tight as ticks.” I glance down, grimacing at the S.B. monogrammed on the outside of the leather fanny pack. “How douche-y can this asshole get? His initials on a fanny pack? Jesus…”
George clacks in agreement, slapping my hand away as soon as I get the zipper open, and diving a paw into the bowels of his new treasure. The sound of delight he makes as he pulls out a flip phone is echoed by Blake’s soft, “Oh, hell yes. A burner phone! Now we’re talkin’.”
<
br /> “Let me see that, buddy,” I say, tugging a little harder when George resists. “I promise I’ll give it back.” With a cranky gurgle and a narrow-eyed glare that makes it clear he intends to keep an eye on me, George releases the cell. I hand it over to Blake, the man without an armful of raccoon.
“It’s still charged enough to turn on,” he says, excitement simmering in his voice. “Come on, baby, let’s see what you’ve got. Okay, we’ve got the home screen, and now to see who Steve was secretly calling on his burner…” He taps two buttons before his hand goes still and a giant smile spreads across his face.
“Something suspicious?” I ask.
Blake turns the screen to face me, revealing a familiar number. “Only if you’d call ringing Cassie at five o’clock this morning, right when she got that creepy call from the guy trying to frame her suspicious.”
It’s all I can do not to let out a victory whoop. I do, however, high-five Blake twice and give George a gratitude-fueled belly scratch that leaves him humming blissfully in my arms.
“I’ll call the sheriff’s office and wait here to make sure he actually does a thorough search of whatever else is in those bins,” Blake says, clapping me on the shoulder before guiding the fanny pack off George’s neck. “You head back into town. You need to see a girl about an apology.”
“I do,” I agree. But this can’t just be any apology. I need to do something special, something to show Cassie just how much she means to me.
Thoughts spinning, I head through the woods with George in my arms, swearing on everything he holds sacred that I will buy him a fanny pack and phone of his very own as soon as I make things right with Cassie.
As if he understands, somehow, he quiets down, nodding in sober approval as I tug my cell from my pocket and make an InstaChat post. It’s short and sweet, but it makes my point. At least I hope it does.
I don’t know if Cassie will forgive me. I don’t know if I can forgive me.
But I’m not giving up. And I hope Cassie will see that even when I’m an idiot, she’s not alone.
