Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,46

room. Not a remote cabin in the Yukon. The power will probably be restored during the night, and Chastity doesn’t like to be babied.

Still. Chastity spent most of her life with people who should have been looking out for her, but wouldn’t. I think that’s why I do some of the things I do for her. Because everybody needs to know that somebody cares.

There’s a tap on the door a couple minutes later, and I get up and feel my way over to open it.

“The plumbing still works,” she says, handing me my phone and walking over to the bed.

“Cool. I’ll test it out myself.”

I head to the bathroom and take care of some necessary business. As I’m tapping on Chastity’s door, my phone rings. It’s Leah, so I answer in spite of my dying battery.

“Hello?” I say, feeling vaguely guilty about being in Chastity’s room. “You’ve reached the headquarters of Nannygoat’s Candies. How may I direct your call?”

“Dylan!” Leah chirps. “That isn’t as funny as you think, given the call I just took. Ask me how many boxes of caramel the Vermont Country Store wants. Go ahead. Ask me.”

Chastity opens the door. I stumble over to the bed, and we both sit down. “Okay. How many boxes of caramel does the Vermont Country Store want?”

“A gross,” she says. “A hundred and forty-four full-sized, plus some samplers.”

“Oh, shit.” I laugh. “Really?”

“Really,” she says. “And you got two smaller orders, too. You’re up to, say, a hundred and seventy-five boxes.”

“A hundred and seventy-five boxes,” I repeat slowly. Chastity lets out a little shriek beside me. “We’re going to be chained to your kitchen, Leah.”

“I know! But that’s a good thing.”

“Is it?” I wonder. “I wonder how many caramels a guy can make on a Friday night?”

“You always have Saturday,” Leah babbles. “I told Chastity you could have either day. And now you need them both.”

“Oh,” I say slowly. “Saturday?” I turn toward Chastity in the dark. The glow from my phone is just bright enough to catch the expression on her face.

It’s guilt.

Eighteen

Chastity

I’m dying inside as Dylan finishes the call with Leah. Now my little spur-of-the-moment lie is unmasked, and I feel terrible.

I’d told myself that it didn’t matter, because Kaitlyn told ten lies to my one. Every day. But it does matter. Because I feel sick inside.

“Yeah, the power went out, first at my house and then here,” he’s saying. “The phone on the wall didn’t ring. But she’s fine. No—it isn’t very cold in here yet.” He glances at me, then points at the phone, asking if I want to talk to Leah.

I shake my head.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “They probably have a lot of lines down tonight. But you know they aren’t going to leave the campus in the dark for long.”

A few moments later he wishes her a good night. He ends the call, pockets the phone, and darkness swallows us. And so does the silence.

I think I can hear my own heart pounding.

“Saturdays, huh?” he whispers eventually. “You told me we could only have the kitchen on Fridays.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “That wasn’t true.”

“You…lied?” he asks. As if it’s inconceivable.

This is why my inner bad girl doesn’t come out very often. Because I’m terrible at this. “I did,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs. “Move over.”

“What?” My heart is in my mouth.

“Move over so there’s room for two.”

Surprise makes me wait another beat. But then I scramble up to the head of my twin bed and pull back the covers. Dylan stands up, which makes it easier for me to slide between the sheets. My pulse jumps erratically as I wait for him to leave, or yell at me, or ask me why I lied.

But that’s not what happens.

I hear the dry sound of a zipper and the clink of a belt as Dylan sheds his jeans. Clothing rustles. And then Dylan pulls back the bedclothes and gets in beside me.

I’m so surprised that it takes a minute to start breathing again. Dylan smells like mint toothpaste, as well as the woodsy scent that I associate with him. We’re lying side by side on our backs, which is not how things go in my fantasies. But it’s close enough to make me feel twice as wistful. And twice as guilty.

Why did I ever think lying to Dylan would improve my life?

The silence is killing me. I practice apology speeches in my head, but before I settle on a worthy version, Dylan’s breathing evens out and lengthens