My tires rattle over the wobbly bridge. I have a sudden, strong vision of how my car could plunge into the creek, and my stomach twists. The high water isn't enough to drown me right now, but what's the protocol for getting out of a car when it's even partially submerged? Presumably, pressure would force the doors shut and the water would short out the electrical system, making the windows inoperable.
As I roll over the last board, I let out a long breath. A flooded river scenario might be the perfect obstacle for Natasha to encounter up in Alaska, since the stakes would be higher due to icy water. I should do some research about ways to escape a submerged vehicle—not only for Natasha's sake, but for my own. Just in case.
Once again, my overactive imagination comes through in a pinch, leaving me full of deadly ideas I hadn't anticipated at the start of the book.
Thankfully, there's no car in the driveway, so I pull right up next to the back door. As the car light comes on, I catch a glimpse of my written-on palm, which reminds me that I've placed thumb tacks on the interior rug.
With my phone flashlight at the ready, I plug in the keycode and open the door. The thumb tacks look undisturbed, so I flip on the overhead light, then get down on my hands and knees to pick each one up.
After lowering my head to floor level to make sure I didn't miss any, I finally head toward the stairs. I don't even glance at the elevator, which I can only hope has been fingerprinted.
Once I've changed into my hoodie and jeans, I go into the living room, where I curl up in a plush armchair that gives me an unblocked view out the front windows. It shouldn't take Henry long to bring my meal over.
In my experience, men vastly underrate the power of offering food to women. Renard never cooked for me, and he rarely suggested taking me out to eat. He said I was introverted and that he understood that being in public for long stretches wasn't my thing, which sounded thoughtful on the surface. But then he'd go out and party it up for hours with his friends, leaving me to eat and go to bed alone.
I should've seen the red flags earlier in our relationship—the way he couched his disinterest as concern for my welfare, the way he always put his other relationships over ours, and the way he dismissed my opinions as if they were yesterday's garbage.
I'm deep into reading about escaping a drowning vehicle when Henry texts that he'll be bringing the food over. I hurry down to unlock the door.
As I stand inside watching for him, he arrives on his four-wheeler. The regular noise of the machine hurtling up the driveway is growing on me—a forceful reminder that I'm not completely alone here. Whether or not I can fully trust Henry, I don't know, but his initial gruffness seems to have melted into something more positive—protective, even. I wish I could lean into it, but Quincy's words niggle in my mind.
Helmetless as usual, he slides off the seat and unstraps a bag from the rear cargo basket. I open the door, and he carries the food over to me.
"This barbeque will blow your mind," he says. "Cleo spends hours making it—it's an old family recipe. I keep telling her she ought to market the stuff, maybe open a restaurant, but she says she'd much rather spend time helping people like my mother."
"Admirable," I say, and mean it. Working with Henry's mother can't be a walk in the park, but someone has to do it.
He falls silent, a dusty curl falling over one eye. The dim twilight has created a thin fog that drifts across the driveway.
A strange desire to spend more time with Henry possesses me, forcing me to speak. "Would you like to join me?"
It's a foolish move, but one I can't take back. As he nods and we walk inside, I try to understand what hijacked my good sense and drove me to ask him in. I slide the chain lock behind us and follow him upstairs.
I do want to ask him about Jordan and push for details on their relationship, if any. But, more importantly, I seem to be craving more of his thoughts on my Lipstick and Lies series. He was the one to recognize the true nature of my side character, Diana, and he also instinctively understood that neither Archer nor Matteo would be good enough for Natasha in the end.
In short, he's got a knack for seeing the big picture for my series, which is often difficult for me. I'm too close to it.
In the kitchen, Henry methodically starts setting out plates, forks, and glasses. He knows the place far better than I do. I try not to picture him creeping into the elevator or spraying cologne in my room, even though he could've easily slipped into and out of the house without my knowledge. He has the code, after all.
Yet my every instinct is screaming that this man would not do something like that to me. He doesn't take pleasure in others' pain, like Renard did.
I stare at the side of his tan face, because I can't seem to look away. His resemblance to Poe is undeniable. There's something similar around the eyes and the slim, aristocratic nose.
He turns to me, so I busy myself with carrying the pork and coleslaw to the table.
"Cleo says the key to good slaw is how fine you chop the cabbage," he says, walking my way. "She uses a food processor."
It's just the kind of awkward thing I'd say—giving too many facts while ignoring the charged atmosphere—and I appreciate it. However, I'm not the right one to entrust with this information, since I'll likely never make coleslaw for any occasion.
I look at the coleslaw in the dish. "Cleo definitely nailed it."
"Oh, yes. Mother approves of all of Cleo's cooking." He gives a chuckle.
I used to be repulsed by Renard's laughter, which always seemed to come at my expense, but there's something warm and good-natured about Henry's laugh. Something that sees the best in others, even if they're hard to deal with.
I find myself smiling in response. Sitting down, I say, "Let's eat. My stomach has finally settled after the signing."
"You get nervous?" His tone is incredulous, as if I should be in my element at such events.
"Every single time," I say.
As I load pork onto a homemade yeast roll, his gaze roams toward the side table and lands on Jordan's manuscript, which I've left sitting out.
"Book seven?" he asks hopefully, spreading butter on his roll.
"That's not my book." My quick answer sounds a little testy, but I realize he's given me an opening to find out more about Jordan's visit. "Actually, it belonged to someone who stayed here before. I found it in a gazebo drawer. I'm surprised you didn't notice it when you were cleaning out there. That's why I asked if you'd noticed anything strange."
His eyebrows tighten, but he doesn't seem to take offense. "Yeah, you're right. I should've come across it when I was cleaning. Whose is it?"
I'm about to drop the pièce de résistance. "Jordan Larson," I say casually.
His pupils darken, appearing to merge with his dark brown irises. "You don't say." He raps on the tabletop.
"You knew her?" I ask.
"Of course I did—she rented this cabin once." He gives me a confused look. "I thought you talked with Mother about her."
Tilly must've informed her son about our conversation, which I should've expected her to do. She probably wondered why I was asking so many questions.
