Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,17

but she’d returned to hurrying away, turning as she jogged. “See you at nine.” She ran off, light on her feet.

He stood there, lightheaded as he watched her go.

After last year’s performance loss and his breakup with Ava, he’d promised himself he’d beat Alistair Murphy at this year’s festival, put that cocky weasel in his place. A small part of him also wanted to show up his ex. They’d both used each other—Jack to take a breather from work and enjoy a woman’s company, Ava to further her fledgling singing career. He didn’t want Ava back, but the way she’d manipulated him had left a sour taste in his mouth. It had made him feel inept and na?ve. He wanted her in the audience, regret on her face as he wowed the crowd. Petty, but the hint of retribution would feel good.

As long as the win was solid.

After a contestant had seduced a judge to pad his score, they’d instilled a “no fraternization” policy. Friendships were acceptable. Intimate relationships were not. If Jack won the tribute title, but did it while dating a judge, he could be disqualified.

Then there was his father, the more important reason to be named this year’s tribute king.

Every year, Maxwell David the Second beamed while watching Jack perform. Winning was something concrete he could do for his sick father, but the town thought Maxwell was gallivanting abroad, not fighting for his life at home. Jack had lied extensively the past months, ensuring their deception’s success. His father’s idea, but Jack had been the one misleading investors, coworkers, friends. Another sacrifice to keep David Industries afloat.

If Gunther’s sabotage came to light and investors learned their CEO was sick, the business’s stock would plummet. Hundreds would lose jobs. Unless they could announce a technological breakthrough first.

That left Jack twelve days to solve his research obstacle, so they could quit lying, and his father could attend the festival. Watch his son perform one last time before he died. All solid reasons to avoid Clementine, but his mind was thirteen hours ahead, to them at his home, wondering what she’d think of him in his Elvis attire.

6

Clementine neared the Whatnot Diner ten minutes early. She planned to use the seconds to gather herself, because she needed gathering. Her plan had worked. Jack had offered his help and his time. She should be ecstatic, ready to sleuth out the Van Gogh’s location. Instead she kept reliving the jogging trail, her hand fitted into Jack’s as their bizarre similarity had pretzeled her insides.

Ricky and Lucy. Matching bearded dragons.

Her pulse still trilled at the impossibility.

She needed to pause and ready herself to see Jack again, but he was early, too, leaning on a Tesla Model S. Not the vehicle she’d expect from an Elvis impersonator. Although impressive, the Tesla held no nostalgia. That baby was all innovation. Electric. Cutting edge, with its dual motor and ludicrous acceleration from 0 to 100 in less than three seconds.

Sexy in its own way, as was its owner.

Bathed in the diner’s lights, Jack’s slacks and dress shirt looked slightly creased, like he’d come from work. His hair was also disheveled, the effect torquing her belly. Focus, Clementine. Remember why you’re here. Remember the kids.

Nisha had been her favorite at the Delhi orphanage. All big brown eyes and lanky limbs, she’d avoided Clementine and had hidden most of that afternoon. Until Clementine had offered her a slice of persimmon. She’d snatched the ripe fruit, the movement incredibly quick. Not too fast to miss the burns on her arms, the slashing scars. Nisha had wedged herself into a corner, smaller than small, and had eaten like she’d never see food again.

That image: a child as feral as a wild dog—distrustful, hungry, hurt—haunted Clementine to this day. It brought back memories of her time on the streets. More reason not to let an unexplainable coincidence and a provocative man derail her work.

She rolled down her window. “Hey there, stranger.”

Jack tucked his chin, sending a few dark strands tumbling over his forehead. “We’re not strangers. We’ve met. Three times, in fact. I know both your names.”

He hadn’t scratched the surface of her names. “Good point.” She glanced around, playing dumb. “Where’s this tribute artist?”

She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t admitted to his hobby upfront, but wasn’t in a position to call him on it.

“You’ll need to follow me. To my place. Which is…” He winced, his focus cementing to the pavement between them. “That sounded forward, and possibly unsafe, seeing