Lost in the Moonlight

by LJ Evans

Genres: Small-town Romance; Romantic Suspense; Friends to lovers

Synopsis

My new neighbor is all too enticing, but I have one job—to stay hidden, and the media’s fascination with Lincoln can destroy my safe haven. So why can’t I stay away?

Having escaped tragedy once, I've made finding joy my focus until a chilling confrontation brings a growly protector to my door.

With a mere brush of hands, Lincoln ignites a flame I can’t deny and a craving I ache to explore. Even knowing he’s completely off-limits, doesn’t seem to stem the tide. As one of the most famous people in the country, he’s hounded by the media, and the only thing keeping me safe is not being seen. One chance photograph of us together could destroy the new life I’ve built.

So when Lincoln insists on walking me to work, I should decline the secret thrill of his company, but I don’t. After all, who could possibly see us in the dead of the night?

Only someone does...

As danger threatens me once more, Lincoln vows to protect me, but his fierce determination may not be enough. This time, I’m afraid evil might just take him with me.

Release date: September 25, 2024

Publisher: LJ Evans Books

Print pages: 442

Sample

Part One

An unstoppable fury consumed me at the news. The messenger took a step back, gaze darting to the door, but it wasn’t him I was imagining gasping for breath.

I would demand blood as payment.

I would exact retribution with my own hands.

We’d find hell together.

 

Chapter One

Lincoln

 

GHOST STORY

Performed by Carrie Underwood

 

My ghost had returned, and the shock of it sliced through me with a brutal force. But instead of talking to me, instead of pushing me to acknowledge her as she once had, she moved away as if she didn’t care that I was watching. She trailed through the ancient cemetery next door on light feet, looking more real than she ever had.

My pulse spiked, drumming itself through my limbs and making my stomach lurch.

I placed a palm on the window, and cold shot through me, reinforcing the fact I was awake. Awake and alive. The waxing moon flickered through the shifting fog as the spirit weaved between tombstones over frost-covered earth. I would have harshly rejected the clichéd image if an artist had dared bring it into my gallery.

Nothing unique about it. No new story being told.

A tired visual that was as old as death and cemeteries themselves.

Hair the color of the moonlight flowed behind the woman as she moved slowly amongst the decrepit graves. A translucent white skirt swirled about her ankles, echoing the spin of the mist. As if finally aware of me, she turned toward my house, lifting a sharp, narrow chin to the window where I stood shadowed in darkness.

Her hand grasped something at her neck, tugging nervously. The fine bones of her fisted fingers were echoed in sharply angled cheeks and a narrow, upturned nose. I’d once kissed those full lips. Ran my palms along the smooth skin of her face. Lost myself in the periwinkle-colored eyes.

The pain I’d thought was buried seeped into me.

And yet there was something slightly off about the image. The reality of her didn’t quite fit on top of the memory. A copy that hadn’t quite lined up straight.

She disappeared behind a family mausoleum, leaving me to stare at nothing but an aging façade. The granite was cracked, moss creeped over it, and the archangel atop its peaked roof was missing a wing.

I finally forced myself away from the window.

One step. Then two.

It wasn’t until I’d put half a dozen paces between me and the glass that I finally began to breathe normally. My lungs burned painfully after being denied a full inhale for a heartbeat too many. I tugged at a thick, dark eyebrow. An old habit that would leave my brows different shapes if I wasn’t careful.

I’d been free of Sienna since opening the gallery in D.C. Starting her dream business had finally allowed her ghost to move on. Or, as my therapist insisted, once I’d accomplished our shared goal, it had allowed the guilt causing the hallucinations to begin with to disappear. Regardless of which was the truth, her ghost had vanished from sight six years ago and never returned.

Until now.

A chill passed over me, and I finally registered the ache seeping into my bare feet from the wooden floors. I hadn’t turned on the heater last night, and the house was now an icy tomb. I pushed my way past the boxes stacked in the center of the renovated bedroom suite to the walk-in closet. The cedar scent from the built-ins was almost overbearing, but it would settle. I had to give it time. Give myself the same.

Change was never easy. It always disrupted my barely-held together routines.

I scanned the labels on the boxes, annoyed to find some of them were my sister Katerina’s. The moving company had mistakenly grabbed hers along with mine from our family storage unit, and now I’d have to figure out what to do with them.

It took me several minutes to find the boxes with my clothes in them. When I finally pulled out a sweatshirt, I wasn’t at all surprised to find it was from the Kreeger Museum. It had been Sienna’s favorite place in the world at a time when my favorite place had been wherever she was.

My jaw cracked, the frustration carving through me growing another notch.

What right did Sienna have to return to me now?

The truth whispered back that she’d earned it the hardest way possible.

She’d died, and I hadn’t.

I’d finally laid her to rest, hadn’t I? Replaced her ghost with new guilts and then buried those as well. Moving to Cherry Bay was supposed to be the last shovel of dirt tossed on the grave of my past. I was turning the corner my parents, and the entire world, had expected me to turn more than a decade ago. Turning the corner my ex, Felicity, had screamed at me for not taking.

I pulled the sweats and a pair of socks onto my freezing body before returning to the king-sized bed to retrieve my cell phone from the nightstand. A single glance at the twisted wine-colored sheets proved I hadn’t been sleeping even before I’d been drawn to the window and the quiet tombstones that complemented the heavy, Gothic furniture of my bedroom. I’d made this room mine specifically because of its neighbor, hoping the solitude would bring me restfulness and never suspecting it would return Sienna instead.

I maneuvered around more boxes to get to the door. The only thing I’d unpacked so far was a crate of artwork that now rested in the sitting area of the suite. A stack leaned up against the dresser, practically hiding the flat-screen television sitting atop it. Some of the art was finished and framed, while others were barely marked canvases waiting to be completed. The painting at the front was a poorly designed imitation of Sienna’s that hung in my D.C. gallery.

We’d created the two pieces together as teens, laughing and snickering behind our art teacher’s back. Mine was full of amateurish lines because I’d been distracted by her, while Sienna’s was a masterpiece made by a sixteen-year-old. Her art now welcomed people to the gallery as she might have if she’d lived, with vibrant colors, strong strokes, and an eye-opening look at our world.

The hallway was dark, but its parquet floors shone in the moonlight as I made my way down the circular staircase. The white marble columns and mother-of-pearl inlaid ceiling had called to me the instant the realtor had shown me the two-story Colonial. With its silvery satin wallpaper and white woods, walking in the front door felt like entering a dream instead of a nightmare. Hopeful instead of hopeless. And I’d needed the hope. The escape.

Slipping past the antique door with its stained-glass panes, I headed straight back to the kitchen, where I glanced out the bay window to the graveyard. When no sign of my ghost greeted me, I flicked on a single drop light, turning incandescent moonlight into warm sunshine.

I’d saved as much of the original artistry of the house as possible while enlarging rooms, hardwiring technology, and hiding solar panels amongst the gray tile roof. But it was in the kitchen I’d done the most work. When my family came to visit, I wanted them to see something here, something in me, they hadn’t seen in a long time—happiness. In this vibrant room hinting of flowers and cheerful meadows, I’d started to convince myself I could achieve it.

Here I’d found a respite from the ugly rumors. Peace from the nonstop barrage of media making me into a monster and Felicity into a saint. I’d started to step into the light of day.

But I should have known better.

I’d never truly escape the dark shadows that had chased me long before gossip, trauma, and ghosts. I’d forever be a figure shrouded in the night with my idiopathic insomnia causing me to rise after mere hours of sleep. A move to a town and a house that looked like it had stepped from the pages of a fairy tale wasn’t going to prevent my sleeplessness any more than the drugs the doctors had once prescribed—drugs I now refused unless I’d gone weeks without rest.

The phone I’d stuffed into my sweats’ pocket buzzed, jarring me from my brooding. One glance at the ridiculous text from my youngest sister eased the heaviness in my chest.

KATERINA: Perchance to dream my brother sleeps while I was out dancing amongst the strips of black and spotted stars.

Two in the morning in Virginia meant it was only eleven in LA, early for a Saturday night in Hollywood.

ME: Dare you torture me this early with your Shakespearian-inspired drivel?

KATERINA: A sister can hope you wouldn’t respond because you were ACTUALLY SLEEPING. I thought things were better lately?

ME: Maybe I was and your text woke me?

KATERINA: You’d have ‘Do Not Disturb’ on if that was the case.

ME: Which stars were you dancing with? Anyone I’ve seen on screen?

KATERINA: I don’t kiss and tell.

I snorted into the silence.

ME: I didn’t say kiss. I said dance.

KATERINA: Don’t try to pry information out of me without answering my question first. How have you been sleeping?

ME: I’ve had several good nights in a row.

KATERINA: I guess that’s decent for you.

ME: Before I forget, the moving company sent some of your boxes with mine. I’ll stuff them in a guest room until you can decide what you want to do with them.

KATERINA: I can’t even remember what’s in them. You could probably toss everything, and I wouldn’t even know.

ME: Fat chance of me doing your dirty work. The ones I’ve opened are full of clothes. If I toss them, you’ll claim there was a one-of-a-kind Dior dress in there, and I’ll have to cough up an unseemly amount of money to try and replace it.

KATERINA: You’re such a cynic. But you’re probably right. Plus, it gives me an excuse to come see your new place. Are you coming with Dad and Mom to California?

ME: No. With everything that went down with Felicity, it’s probably better for me to keep off the campaign trail. They don’t need me anyway. Dad’s numbers are good. He’s a shoo-in for reelection at this point.

KATERINA: No one is ever a shoo-in these days. But his numbers are good.

None of us would say aloud what we were all thinking, but the thank God this is the last campaign we’ll ever have to live through still hovered unspoken between my twin sisters and me. The bulk of our childhood had been spent surviving one election after another. Now, as our dad’s first term as President of the United States wrapped up, we caught glimpses of the end to the excruciating political process we’d lived through. Dad had achieved the mountain top, stayed there for as long as possible, and would soon be taking the easy road downward. While I admired him for choosing the difficult and unforgiving job of leading a country that seemed one step away from falling to pieces, I’d be grateful when it was finally behind us.

ME: Are you tagging along with them for any of the stops out West?

KATERINA: Just a couple events in California. We start shooting on a new film week after next.

ME: What about Juliette?

KATERINA: She’ll pop in when her schedule allows, but she’s so close to finishing her residency she can taste it. You’d know that if you texted her yourself.

It was a well-used but gently tossed rebuke. Texting was nearly impossible when I didn’t even know where my phone was half the time.

ME: Stop throwing shade and go get some sleep. You’re not as young as you used to be, and those nasty bags under your baby blues are becoming permanent.

KATERINA: I do NOT have bags, Mr. Grouchypants. You’re the one who needs to drink some tea and slide under the covers for a few more hours before you turn pale and pasty like the vampire you really are.

I snorted at the Mr. Grouchypants nickname, pleased I’d needled her enough to use it.

I turned the electric kettle on, and while I waited for it to boil, I slit open the top box in the stack next to the island. I pulled out the contents, setting them on the rustic table I’d bought with thoughts of future dinners with my parents and siblings in mind. I’d dreamed of us eating, teasing, and playing cards at the roughhewn planks as a normal family once Dad’s career was behind us. Except a normal family would never have the Secret Service hovering at the doors and windows as ours always would.

While the Secret Service would forever be a part of my parents’ world, I’d had my fill of them. I’d sent my detail packing, and I wasn’t sure yet if it had been the smartest or stupidest thing I’d ever done. Only time would tell, and I had plenty of it to spare. Plenty of privacy to go along with it.

I wasn’t foolish enough to believe the privacy would last. Eventually, my presence in this tiny town would be discovered, and the media would swarm, especially once I opened a new gallery on Main Street. But for now, I could pretend I was just a regular man building his life in a quiet village where nothing bad ever happened and where the paparazzi weren’t watching every move.

By the time my tea had been steeped, stirred, and grown cold again, I’d put away half the kitchen boxes. Thanks to my insomnia, in a few days the house would look like I’d lived in it for a lifetime. Then, I could turn my attention to the gallery.

I was still stumbling to find a direction there. The right vibe. But it would come into focus.

It had to.

While everything I’d done in the D.C. gallery had been for Sienna, the one here was for me. It was a chance to find my own footing, my own happiness. I just had to keep Sienna’s ghost away long enough to make sure it happened. Because Felicity had been right about one, and only one, thing in our time together—I had to drag myself away from the dead and find my way back to the living.

 

Chapter Two

Willow

 

CRAZY ANGELS

Performed by Carrie Underwood

 

The scent of citrus filled the air as I spread the icing in quick strips over the last batch of lemon-poppyseed scones. The motion was automatic, leaving my mind to explore the ideas I had for combining my miniature desserts with images of an old mosaic I’d taken this morning. Something about creating edible art was floating just out of reach. I itched to finish my shift so I could go home and play with it.

I dropped the frosting bag into the sink and shouldered the tray of scones, pushing through the swinging door between the kitchen and the café. The hiss of the espresso machine and soft chatter of college students greeted me. Hector’s voice boomed out a name as I slid the tray into the display case alongside a variety of other pastries.

No miniatures in sight here…at least not yet. Just the possibility of The Tea Spot carrying my miniatures sent my heart cartwheeling around in my chest.

Hector’s café was a favorite amongst residents, students, professors, and tourists because of its homemade goodies, unique teas, and specially blended coffees you’d never find at the average chain store. Not that Cherry Bay had any chain stores lining its streets. The town council adamantly refused to budge on the zoning laws preventing anything but locally owned businesses from existing inside the town limits.

When I’d first moved here with Mom almost six years ago, not finding the familiar shops and brands I was used to had been just one more loss. Now, I loved that the town supported their businesses and how the locals acted like one big family, watching out for each other. It was why, after finishing culinary school, I hadn’t hesitated in returning to Cherry Bay.

I was happier here than I could remember being since before Dad had died. Every day, I had a hand in making the pretty treats sitting in the case, got to live in a town that felt like a fairy tale, and had people I called family welcoming me through the doors.

Hector joined me, examining the new set of scones. He had a few inches on my average height and was boxy all over. His arms and chest were muscled and contoured from years of pounding dough. Because he was in such great shape, he looked younger than the flecks of white in his black strands might have otherwise insinuated. The corners of his chocolate eyes crinkled when he grinned, which he was almost always doing, but they also told a story of heartbreak. I recognized the lines because they mirrored my mom’s—grief had marked them both. The fact Hector could so easily smile even after all he'd lost was one of the things that had encouraged me to find my own happiness again.

“Those look perfect,” he said, bumping my shoulder with his. “You’re better at making my creations than I am now.”

The pride in his words shed a warm glow over me, but before I could respond, he was called over to the register by our latest new hire. Ted was a college freshman who was there simply for the paycheck. When I’d first gotten a job at the café, five years ago, it had been for my love of baking as much as for the money. The Tea Spot had given me an outlet for my creativity, but more importantly, Hector and his daughter, Shay, had brought friendship back to my life.

I grabbed a dirty dish tub from the back counter and rounded the room, collecting empty cups and trash. I hummed along to the pop song drifting through the speakers. The lyrics were about today being a fairy tale, which fit the café perfectly. 

From its eighteenth-century sideboards, white-washed tables, and gold marble counters to the hand-painted artwork, The Tea Spot practically shouted magical stories. The heart of the café was the mural taking up an entire wall. It was of a woman dancing amongst woodland creatures as a younger version of Hector, dressed like a prince, rode a white stallion across the flower-filled meadow toward her. It had been added to the café by Hector’s late wife before cancer had taken her.

With the tub full, I twirled around, chatting with a customer here and there on my way back to the counter. I was still chuckling at the yoga instructor and his wife when a voice interrupted me, slithering through my good mood.

“Hey, Willow. Can I get a refill?”

I kept my smile fixed in place as I turned toward Poco. Perhaps it was the narrow slit of his eyes spaced too far apart or the slant of his nose with its tiny nostrils, but I often imagined a forked tongue flicking in and out of his too-wide mouth. Of all the regulars who came into The Tea Spot, he was the only one who made my skin crawl.

Not even his boss, Tall Paul, who everyone in Cherry Bay knew was involved in all sorts of criminal activities, made my fight-or-flight instincts spike to a fever pitch the way Poco did. It was ridiculous, considering the man had never been anything but nice to me. Plus, he tipped well whenever I helped him, and that was good for everyone.

“Absolutely, Poco!” I responded cheerfully, placing the tub on the counter before reaching for his reusable tumbler. “Traditional medium roast, like always?”

He nodded. I felt his eyes on me the entire time I topped off his drink from the large carafe. When I returned, I set the cup on the counter so I wouldn’t risk touching him. Whenever I did, all my alarm bells jangled even stronger.

Poco’s gaze slid down me, and I was grateful the apron I wore covered most of me. When his eyes returned to my face, they glinted with an interest I’d never take him up on—and not just because my skin prickled around him or because he was at least fifteen years older than me. I’d simply never take anyone up on that look unless they could accept the possible limitations of my life. While I saw nothing wrong with other people losing themselves in pleasure for one night, I wanted more than that for myself, and Poco certainly wasn’t offering forever after. No matter how short of a time I had on this earth, I was determined to have what my parents once had—the kind of love that included dancing in the kitchen, tender touches, and doe-eyed looks.

“You’ve been back in town, what, a year now?” Poco asked. His tone seemed friendly, as if he was simply making chitchat, so why did it make me want to run?

“Ten months,” I told him.

 “Ten months and I haven’t heard a whisper of you going out on a date with anyone. I think we should change that. You deserve a good time,” he said with a smirk.

I bit my lip, trying not to snort at the knee-deep innuendos.

“I’m not really in a dating space, Poco, but thanks for thinking of me.”

He shook his head, lips sliding wider, showing off those tiny teeth and making me imagine the slide of a forked tongue all over again. “I’ll wear you down eventually.”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes and, instead, gave him my best pacifying smile, saying, “Eventually isn’t today.”

He rapped his knuckles on the counter, dropped a couple of twenties into the tip jar, and then strolled out, whistling an upbeat song that somehow sent a chill over my skin.

“Need me to set him straight?” Hector asked, coming up behind me with a frown forming between his heavy brows as he watched Poco leave.

His protectiveness chased away the clouds Poco had brought with him. My smile was genuine this time when I pushed at the crease between his brows. “Not unless you feel like starting a war with Tall Paul.” When he didn’t relax, I added gently, “It’s harmless, Hector, really. I can handle turning him down once a month from now until eternity if it keeps the peace. I’m rarely out front anyway.”

Since I’d returned from culinary school, I’d taken over the baking of the pastries five days a week, which meant I rarely left the kitchen. I no longer had to put Poco off every day like I once had. It also meant coming to work when the skies were still dark, but I loved the quiet time spent creating. Plus, I was off by noon, leaving plenty of time to play around with my own ideas at home.

When Hector still didn’t look convinced, I eased up on my toes, kissed his smooth cheek, and said, “Thanks for offering to defend me. Mom will be singing your praises when I tell her.”

And that finally did it. His entire face softened, and a faint blush stole over his face.

My heart squished.

Now, if I could only maneuver them into finally going out on an actual date.

It had been almost six years now since Dad had been killed, and the dark of those first few years was finally leaving us. These days, I caught more and more glimpses of the laughing, upbeat Mom I’d grown up with rather than the sober, serious human who’d barely survived day by day.

It was time for Mom to reach out and take what was in front of her. I wanted to do the same, but I hadn’t found my Hector—a man who would completely dote on a partner. I’d heard enough stories from Shay about her parents to know he’d do just that. Sophia had been gone fifteen years, and Hector was still as single as my mom. They both deserved to have love shine in their lives again, and Shay and I were determined to make it happen.

I went back into the kitchen, my mind whirling with ways to thrust Hector and Mom together as I cleaned up my mess from the last batch of scones. After I took the garbage out one more time, I stepped into the office and stuffed my apron into the bin of linens before heading to the small set of lockers lined up on the wall for employees.

I pulled the clip from my long hair and let it swing down below my shoulders, reveling in the freedom after hours of having it pinned tight under a plastic cap. I grabbed the white chiffon maxi-skirt I didn’t need but loved and pulled it on over my leggings. Gauzy fabrics always lifted my spirits, and if they hadn’t been a hazard in the kitchen, I would live in them.

As I slung my patchwork bag over my shoulder, I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind Hector’s desk. My cheeks were flushed, emphasizing the line of freckles over my nose, but the upward curve of my lips finally felt natural instead of forced. Even my pale, gray eyes seemed brighter. Like Mom, I was finally letting myself be happy again.

Our nightmare was over. For six years, no one had found us here. I was living the dreams I’d promised myself I’d make come true and marking off the joyous experiences on my bucket list one at a time. The heaviness of our past had slid away.

I ducked my head through the swinging door to the café and hollered goodbye. Hector’s returned volley followed me out the door.

When I’d walked to work that morning, the fog had been thick, but now the sunshine had finally broken through, and the gentle warmth coasted over me. The quiet, damp of the predawn hours had been replaced with the noisy rush of lunchtime in a small town. The heady scent of cherry blossoms filled the air. The pink-and-white petals lined the cobblestone streets from Bonnin University to the far end of Main Street where the asphalt took over.

A fragrant petal twirled from the sky and landed on my skirt, blending in with the sheer fabric and making me feel like I was actually wearing spring. This was my favorite time of year in Cherry Bay, when the soft lights and vibrant colors shimmered over the old stone, brick, and iron buildings.

Founded in the seventeen hundreds, the town had existed in near anonymity until the college was built on the bluff overlooking the Potomac in the 1940s. Now, the charming little haven ballooned each fall from several thousand permanent residents to nearly ten thousand as students and academics from around the globe filtered in.

I inhaled the scent of the flowers mixing with the scent of coffee from the café and garlic from the Italian restaurant across the way before strolling toward home. I passed the yoga studio Mom and I kept swearing we were going to join and crossed the street at The Prince Darian Tavern before rounding the corner onto our street.

Here, the cheery hum of downtown disappeared, allowing another fairy-tale image to take over. Once thatched-roofed cottages faced rectangular Colonials of shiplap and warm red brick. It was like someone had drawn a line along the cobblestones and declared one side of the road belonging to the Elizabethan times and the other to the Southern gentry.

Mom and I lived in the last cottage at the end of the street where it butted up against an old cemetery. The down payment on the house had been made by the U.S. government before the mortgage had been tossed in Mom’s lap. She’d scrambled to make the payments while building a new career for herself after the Marshals had declared her old one off-limits. Giving up nursing had felt like one more loss, but now she loved teaching science at the high school.

I stopped at the iron gate in our stone wall, turning my face toward the sun, closing my eyes, and letting the rays dance over me. The song of the birds and the buzz of the bees flitting around our haphazard garden only added to the glow I felt deep inside.

When I opened my eyes, my gaze landed on the manicured yard across the street. At least the construction on the white-and-gray Colonial had finally stopped. Whoever had bought the house had all but gutted it. For six months, hammers and saws had rung out, making my daytime nap more difficult than usual. With my alarm going off at two each morning, I often needed a few hours to catch up on my sleep when I got home. It was that or I drifted off before dinner, which was the only time I got to see Mom during the school year.

As I pushed open our gate and stepped onto the river rock path, the door of the Colonial opened behind me. An old habit I’d mostly shaken had me ducking into the shadows of our willow tree where I could watch and not be seen.

A man in his late twenties emerged from the house. He was tall and lean in a way that screamed corded muscles and tight control. His wide shoulders were pulled back straighter than I’d ever seen anyone hold themselves. He had deep brown hair with just a hint of a wave that caused the edges to curl over the collar of his gray jacket. The dark locks glistened with undertones of black and silver in the sunshine.

He twirled a set of keys around a long finger, a baseball cap in his other hand, as he jogged down the brick path to the sidewalk, where he jerked to a quick stop. He looked both ways along the street before finally sending his eyes in my direction. I had a quick impression of a strong nose and square jaw before a penetrating gaze landed on the shadows of the willow tree.

While I knew he couldn’t see me, my heart still skipped a beat and I retreated farther. Something about the intensity of his look caused my pulse to thunder in my veins. It wasn’t the fight-or-flight instinct I experienced with Poco. This was…tantalizing. A quiet dare. As if he could tempt my soul right out of my body if I let him.

For several long seconds, he stayed as still as I was, a strange mirror of opposites, before sliding the baseball hat on, tossing his keys from one hand to the other, and striding toward downtown. His denim-clad legs ate up the cobblestones at a pace even my long ones would have had a hard time keeping up with.

As my pulse slowed from its frantic beat, something tickled at the back of my mind about him. It was as if I knew him, and yet I was positive we’d never met. I would have remembered that soul-luring gaze.

Was he living in the Colonial or visiting? Did he have a wife and kids who’d moved in with him, or was he staying in that big house all alone? Was he working at the college?

I stopped my runaway thoughts. It was none of my business. If there was one thing Mom and I were good at, it was respecting people’s privacy, because we needed the same in return.

I shook off the wild tumult his appearance had caused and made my way down the path to the cottage. The flowers needed watering, and the weeds needed to be pulled, but thoughts of the mosaic and my miniatures were calling to me.

I’d decided to start by printing an edible photo of the mosaic onto a layer of fondant, and then I’d stack carefully crafted miniature tarts and pies and other treats along the top until it became a three-dimensional version of the original. It would be a challenge, and I hadn’t worked all the details out yet, but anticipation had me itching to begin.

I loved working for Hector and was grateful that he’d encouraged me to attend culinary school, but these days, I found myself craving more from my career. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life only making Hector’s recipes, only creating treats gobbled up with barely a momentary glance.

I wanted to create art in the form of food.

I wanted it to be appreciated viscerally—with all your senses.

Desserts that would be remembered months after seeing and tasting them. I wanted people to tell stories about them to their friends, as if reliving a beautiful memory. A mark that would be left behind even if I no longer was here.

 

Chapter Three

Lincoln

 

I CAN BARELY SAY

Performed by The Fray

 

Music filled the house from the built-in speakers, ranging from classical to country to pop. While the volume wasn’t loud enough to wake my actual living neighbors at two in the morning, it was enough to keep my mind occupied so I wasn’t fixated on seeing Sienna again.

Over the last two nights, I hadn’t seen a glimmer of her, and I’d almost convinced myself the upheaval of the move had simply brought her back temporarily. After dwelling on it for much too long, I wasn’t even sure it had actually been Sienna. Even as a ghost, Sienna had always been loud, demanding her presence be acknowledged, whereas the spirit the other night had simply slipped through the tombstones as if skimming through calm seas. A beacon of light rather than a black hole.

Still, I’d barely been able to claim three hours of solid sleep since then, which only hinted at worse to come if I didn’t get more soon. The upside to my sleeplessness was that the house was nearly unpacked.

In the next few days, I’d hang the paintings on the walls, and the house would be done. As putting up art was usually a two-person job, I’d try and convince Lyrica to come down from D.C. to help me. I’d have to bribe her with something good because my gallery manager found the ambiance of the small town I’d moved to an affront to her city-girl senses.

I pulled a photography book from the box, adding it to a stack on the shelf alongside a smiling gold Buddha I’d snatched from Dad’s gift pile before the State Department had shuffled it away. Everything in the study was bright and cheerful, from the paisley drapes in shades of bright blues to the robin’s egg-colored arm chairs. The desk made from an antique white door and the white-washed bookshelves only added to the sky-like vibe that had me nicknaming the study my Walking on a Cloud room. It had the same light energy as the Sunshine Meadow kitchen. All the rooms of the house were purposefully upbeat except my bedroom, otherwise known in my head as the The Vampire’s Lair. It was the only place I allowed myself to retreat into the darkness—where the gloom felt welcoming.

When my insomnia woke me, I didn’t have to leave the shadows to keep my rules about using my bed only for sleep and sex to keep my brain programmed correctly. I could simply slip into the sitting area of the suite and watch television or read a book, letting the shadows keep me in their embrace a little longer.

In the quiet between songs, my laptop pinged with a notification, and I moved over to find a dozen messages in the secure chat app. Some of them were from my mother. Most were from Katerina. A single message from Felicity sat like a poisonous snake waiting to strike. Just seeing her name sent a chill down my spine while the subject line of I need help caused panic and then anger to rush through. The hate she’d spewed had dwindled to a stop since the beginning of the year, so what the hell could she possibly need now? How could she possibly think reaching out to me, of all people, was the way to get what she needed? I should have blocked her, but I’d learned from Dad’s career that sometimes it was better to know what was coming at you rather than have it hiding and biding its time.

My jaw tightened, and even though I knew I should read it, I simply reached over and deleted the message before opening my sister’s.

KATERINA: Mom’s going ballistic because she hasn’t heard from you in days. Don’t be surprised if she’s already pinged your location and sent a Secret Service detail to do a welfare check. Where’s your phone?

I tapped the pocket on my sweats only to find it empty.

ME: Tell her I lost it in the sea of boxes but that I’m fine.

KATERINA: I’ve been a gofer for long enough in Hollywood. I don’t want to be yours too. Tell her yourself.

ME: Who’s the Grouchypants now?

Even as I teased, concern coasted through me. Katerina was rarely snippy. Determined and full of energy, but not usually waspish.

KATERINA: Please talk to her so she stops harassing me. I have a lot of work to get done before I’m back on set. As the assistant director, a lot is riding on my shoulders and I don’t have time to keep on top of you.

A twinge of remorse filled me for making her my regular go-between.

ME: I’m sending her a note right now. But do me a favor?

KATERINA: Haven’t I done you enough?

ME: Go get laid. I miss my relaxed sister.

KATERINA: Sometimes getting laid is the problem not the answer.

Her answer only spiked my worry.

ME: Hey, all joking aside, what’s wrong?

It took Katerina a beat too long to respond for me to be sure it was the truth.

KATERINA: Nothing is wrong. I just need this film to succeed so I can get the gig I really want. Go back to your boxes. I have work to do.

Maybe it really was just her working too hard, but something felt off. I’d call her later. She could never lie to me when we talked, I’d hear it in her voice.

I turned away from the computer and back to the cardboard stacked in the middle of the office, my thoughts drifting once again to the message from Felicity. I was furious she could still get to me. She’d played on my fears in our relationship. Not just about the women in my life who’d experienced tragedy, but about the coldness that had filled me since my friend Leya had been kidnapped and returned unharmed, thanks to the Secret Service.

I’d thought giving Felicity what she’d wanted, handing her some of my secrets and the pieces of me I kept hidden, would shed the numbness that had taken hold. I’d thought it would allow me to feel close to another human again. So I’d made the mistake of telling her not only about my insomnia but about seeing Sienna’s ghost after she’d died. Instead of bringing us closer, it had given her ammunition to use against me. Grenades she’d launched without a second thought to what it would do to me or my family.  

I stopped myself just as I reached up to tug an eyebrow.

The media had been relentless last fall. All my failings had been replayed with a new viciousness. The college images of me drinking and partying were smattered with articles about my supposed abandonment of Lyrica that had led to her getting shot and the car crash that had left Sienna dead. Those old stories turned into new rumors of drugs and alcoholism, encouraged by images Felicity had taken without my knowledge while I’d been pacing a darkened room in a sleepless frustration. My parents and their PR teams had struggled to keep the worst of it at bay. We’d all known that if it had lasted further into the new year, it would have haunted Dad throughout the election.

So I’d tried to make it all go away by disappearing. I’d taken off from D.C. last August, winding up in Cherry Bay, and found the town working a bit of magic on me. My shoulders had relaxed, and my breath had come easier. After three nights in a row with six hours of sleep, I’d shown up at a realtor’s office, looking for a house I could buy immediately. It had taken mere weeks to close on the Colonial but another six months to complete the renovations.

All I wanted now was for the peaceful magic that had surrounded me while I’d stayed here in the fall to return to me. I had to find stable ground. I needed this or I might just drift off for good into that dreamless sleep Katerina was so fond of quoting.

I took my irritation out on the empty boxes, using the pearl-handled switchblade passed down from my great-grandfather to slash through the packing tape and flatten them. I pocketed the knife, filled my arms with cardboard, and headed for the back door through the kitchen.

As I stepped into the frigid air promising fog and rain, I cursed myself for not adding an enclosed walkway from the house to the detached garage as part of the remodel. I punched in the code on the garage door, and as I waited for it to roll up, my gaze drifted to the cemetery. My feet froze, and my body stiffened as a lone figure slipped through the swirling mist and tombstones.

She was pale and graceful with her long hair whipping about in the fierce wind the spring storm had brought with it. She looked completely real. Vivid and alive.

Just as she had the other night, the ghost ignored me.

Maybe that, more than anything, should have told me it wasn’t a hallucination. That it wasn’t Sienna.

My grip tightened on the cardboard. I dragged my eyes away from the pale figure and forced my legs forward into the garage. I dropped my load onto the pile already filling the space where I’d eventually park my Range Rover. My former detail would have had a field day with me leaving my SUV in the drive where anyone could screw with it, but it had given me a sort of twisted pleasure to live outside the bounds of the Secret Service rules after years of following them.

As I left the garage, the wind bit through my sweatshirt, its sharp teeth sliding into my skin. I refused to let my eyes journey to the graveyard. Instead, I kept them pinned on the back door.

I was two steps from making it inside when the sound of raised voices halted me—a man and a woman. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but the male’s tone had an edge of ugly to it and hers a hint of panic that had me spinning around and jogging toward the stone wall dividing my property from the graveyard.

As the argument grew even more heated, my urgency increased. With no time to walk to the gate, I used a hand to brace myself and hopped over the waist-high wall. As I rounded the corner of the mausoleum with the broken-winged angel, my eyes landed on the woman I’d thought was a hallucination and a man in a beanie who hovered over her while the fog churned around them.

He was dressed all in black, blending in with the shadows, and she was in soft pastels that glowed like a rainbow even in the broken moonlight. The epitome of angels versus demons. Goodness versus wickedness.

His gloved hand clamped down on her arm encased in a cotton-candy pink coat Sienna would never have been caught dead in. He yanked her closer, and the woman’s sneaker-clad feet slid along the dewy grass. She lost her balance and had to catch herself by placing her free hand on his chest. The man leered at her, and the look on his face was ugly in a way that made my insides twist.

“I said, let go.” The woman’s voice was breathless but strong, full of a command I wanted to applaud her for as I hurried to close the remaining distance.

“I won’t ask you again. How long have you been here, and what exactly did you see, Willow?” the man snarled.

“I didn’t see anything. Now get your hands off me.” She pushed on him, and her struggle made his eerie grin grow wider.

“Maybe you saw me and came crawling. I told you I’d wear you down eventually. Now there’s no distractions. No Hector. Just you and me and the dead.”

If he’d expected to scare her, he hadn’t achieved it. At least, she didn’t show it. Instead, she raised her chin in a defiance that made me feel proud when I had no right to it. “I told you. I’m not interested.”

“Hey!” I called out. My voice startled them, and two pairs of eyes darted my way. “I think she said let go.”

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“No one you care to mess with.”

He looked me over, sizing up my lean frame in nothing but sweats and beat-up tennis shoes and clearly not feeling impressed. While he had several layers of muscle on me, I had a couple inches of height and a determination backed with years of martial arts training he wouldn’t know existed until he crossed the line.

As his eyes narrowed in on my face, I counted the seconds, waiting for him to recognize me, and was relieved when he didn’t.

“Mind your own business,” the man said, jerking again on the woman’s arm. A moment of panic drifted across her face so white it matched the gravestones.

The wind whipped through the trees, but I no longer felt the cold biting me. Anger heated my veins until they roared with flames. I wouldn’t stand by and watch while another innocent woman got hurt…manhandled…killed.

If I’d still had my detail, they’d have backed me up, or more likely, one of them would’ve taken care of the situation entirely. Instead, I was the only person who could stop what was happening.

As I stalked over the damp grass to the woman, my hand bumped against the switchblade I’d placed in my pocket. I pulled it out, flicked it open, and pointed it at the man.

“You’re the one who needs to mind your own business,” I insisted.

The woman’s eyes widened, darting now between me and her captor. As she struggled to free herself from his grip once again, I reached for her opposite arm. The puffy jacket collapsed under my hand until my fingers collided with a thin rod of muscle and bone. It hit me all at once that she was actually real. Not a ghost or a guilt-filled hallucination. Real.

The man yanked at her one more time. The poor woman was now a tug-of-war rope between two equally hostile men staring each other down. When I didn’t look away from him, when I angled the point of my knife in the direction of his face, he finally dropped his grip.

She stumbled toward me, and I wrapped my free arm around her shoulders. The tremble I’d expected in her voice coasted through her body, showing just how much he’d shaken her regardless of her brave tone. I admired the control it had to have taken to only show him a fierce calm.

“Do you want me to call the cops?” I asked.

The man stepped back, blending into the shadows. “Don’t be stupid, Willow. You don’t want the police involved. This was just a little warning to keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you. Don’t turn this into something Paul has to straighten out. Understand?” When neither of us responded, his eyes narrowed. “Let’s keep it to ourselves, and everything will be fine.”

Then, he disappeared completely in the dark and mist. Only a sickly, cheery tune he whistled let us know he was moving farther and farther away.

I closed the knife, pocketed it, and then looked down into the face of the woman tucked up against me. Her eyes were wide and dilated as she watched the shadows where the man had vanished.

“Let’s get you out of here,” I said. I slid my arm from her shoulders and took a step away. When she remained frozen, I placed a gentle hand on her elbow, encouraging her to move and then guiding her through the tombstones.

Warmth crept through me with her nearness, more than the light touch could account for. A fizzle of attraction that spoke of kisses and tangled limbs. Things this woman certainly wouldn’t want after what she’d just experienced. I told myself the feelings were just because I was relieved to know she was real.

Wanting us out of the cemetery as quickly as possible in case the whistling asshole came back, I avoided the gates once more and headed for the stone wall and my house. I slid over first and then turned to offer her a hand.

At first, she didn’t accept. She just stood there, chest heaving, taking me in.

The light from my back door glowed across the drive, shining on her face, and I finally realized why I’d thought the hallucination had been off the other night. It wasn’t just the pink coat she wore that was a marked difference from the all-black clothing Sienna had favored. It was a thousand other tiny details. They shared the white-blond hair, fine-boned frame, and heart-shaped face, but the similarities ended there.

This woman was soft colors and warm lights versus Sienna’s dark and broody. Her eyes were larger and much paler than Sienna’s—a soft gray that almost blended in with the whites—and she had a dusting of freckles along the tip of her nose, whereas Sienna’s skin had been completely untouched.

She was a copy that had been slightly altered.

Not less. Not worse. Just different.

It was the difference that stole my breath away and flamed the fires whispering of tangled skin, taunting me with whispered words of passion and adoration and unyielding joy.

Things I didn’t want because they stirred up strong emotions I was trying to leave behind. I was damn happy to revel in the silent charm I’d found in my new home, and I was irritated it had been disturbed, frustrated that I’d been drawn into something ugly when all I’d been asking of the universe was for a few weeks of solitude and anonymity.

Why the hell had she been in the graveyard at this hour to begin with? And why the hell did I have to be the one to get involved? Where were the people who should have been looking after her? My irritation grew, morphing into anger at her for not only disrupting my peace but also for making me think Sienna had returned. For tormenting me with all my past failures, leaving me no option but to insert myself into whatever this situation had been about.

My resentment bubbled and boiled until my eyes landed on her tentative gaze resting on my outstretched palm. The sheer uncertainty in that look made my annoyance suddenly feel wrong, which only proved to anger me more. Except, this time, it was all self-directed. She’d had a terrible scare, and I was an ass thinking only of myself.

So I pushed my hand forward once more, offering even more help instead of less.