You’re my only dream, Frankie Leigh.
Damn him.
I was giggling like I used to, having the urge to do a couple twirls and a skip and a jump or two.
The door swung open, and I shrieked in surprise, so wrapped up in the two of us. Which basically was the way it’d always been. Evan and I living out those fantasies.
Innocently.
Maybe even naively.
But that was okay.
We’d deserved those years.
“Aunt Hope.” I fumbled to get my phone back into my pocket. I pinned on a bright smile, rocking back on my heels and huffing a piece of hair out of my face.
She waved a flippant hand in the air. “Oh, don’t even try to play coy, Frankie Leigh. You think I don’t know who you’re talking to? You should see your face. And believe me, it looks way happier right now than it did when you were sneaking out Evan’s window at the crack of dawn this morning.”
She cocked a brow.
A gasp of guilt and shock and oh shit blundered out of my mouth.
“Wha . . . I . . . I just . . .”
Well, that wasn’t helpin’ things.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, Sweet Pea. You think I don’t know you’ve been in love with my son for his whole life? Same as he has been with you? You think it was some kind of secret? Because I promise you, it was not.”
Unease shivered.
“You knew?”
I guessed the question was, how much? What did Uncle Kale tell her? Because I’d wanted to spare her that grief, too.
“I’m his mama. Of course, I knew. Not sure why you two thought you needed to keep it a secret.”
“We were gonna tell y’all.”
I mean, I’d just turned eighteen. My daddy wasn’t gonna be all that thrilled about it, but he would have gotten over it.
She seemed to war with what to say, hesitating before she seemed to decide differently and headed for the door, only to pause to look back at me from over her shoulder. “Just . . . be careful, Frankie Leigh. For both of you. There are a whole lot of hearts at stake right now.”
Without giving me time to respond, like I even would have been able to with the instant pressure crushing my ribs, she disappeared back through the door.
I fought my own war, pulling out my phone and looking at it again before I typed out another message.
Me: Dinner. Friday. Let’s talk.
I went to chewing at my lip again, added a couple more words.
Me: And just . . . watch out for Jack. Let me know if you see him. I don’t trust him.
I was the last to leave that evening, closing up the café, making sure the front doors were secured and double-checking that the ovens were off and the refrigerators were running.
When I verified everything was set, I flipped off the lights and stepped out the back door, locking it up tight.
Gravel crunched under my shoes as I made my way to my car, clicked the lock, and got inside. I pushed the button to turn the ignition, the headlights instantly coming to life, and I put it in reverse and started to pull out.
It was just a flash of something that I caught out of the corner of my eye.
A shadow.
A vapor.
A horrible, terrible premonition.
The hairs lifted at the back of my neck, and I struggled to see into the darkness, the shape gone as fast as I’d noticed it.
Shaking it off, I hit the road and headed for home.
But that sensation wouldn’t leave me. The phantom feeling that I was being watched.
Tailed.
Tracked.
I slowed my car, searching through the rear-view mirror. The car right behind me slowed, and when I made a sudden left, it did the same.
My heart rate spiked and dread slicked my flesh in a sticky sweat.
I made a quick right.
The car did the same.
I made another, then rasped out in relief when it went left.
With the headlights shining bright, I could barely make it out, the black car that could be anybody’s. But something about it felt familiar. Like I’d seen it before.
I gave a harsh shake of my head. I was being paranoid.
Winding back to my normal route, I drove the rest of the way toward home and took the last right into our neighborhood.
Everything was quiet, the sun giving up its hold on the day, twilight sinking into the atmosphere.
Strewing the sky with blues and purples and one twinkling star that made itself known just above the horizon.
I