When Uncle Finn bought Strawberry Farm, he hired a Mom-and-Pop construction company to renovate the dilapidated cottage at the heart of it. But then the "pop" cheated on the "mom" somewhere between drawing up the blueprints and breaking ground, and now Finn's house stands as a testament to their bitter divorce.
The welcome mat on the front porch is a battle line. South of it, the cottage exterior is storybook-cute—whitewashed stone, periwinkle-blue shutters, and a chimney that coughs up smoke on winter evenings. Cross over into enemy territory, and you'll find yourself in the lobby of a high-end hotel: loveless, clean lines, cold marble, and sofas you're not allowed to eat snacks on.
Usually, Finn wouldn't tolerate such a farce from the construction company, but it turns out, the couple's inability to communicate worked in his favor. His home is the brick-and-mortar version of him: a big-city hotshot wrapped in a small-town disguise.
His voice shoots down the stairs the moment I click the door shut behind me.
"Wren? Is that you?"
I roll my eyes. "No, it's a burglar who just happens to have a key."
"Very funny. Come upstairs, please. I want to show you something."
Sitting on the bottom step, I tug off my boots, check the soles for dirt, and place them neatly beside the umbrella stand. Then I climb the stairs on my hands and knees, because I wouldn't trust a staircase with floating steps and no handrail at the best of times—let alone one built by a man distracted by the prospect of losing half of everything he owns.
I find Finn in his office, sitting rigid in the Herman Miller chair behind his desk. His eyes rise over the rim of his glasses, then fall down the length of me in a measured sweep.
"You were meant to come by last night. Everything okay?"
No, nothing's okay.
Though I'd ridden out of Gabriel's garage on my high horse, the darkness had followed me out. And as a sleepless night in Rory's spare bedroom bled into day, the guilt and disgust wore off like cheap temporary tattoos.
He'd taken up every square inch of my brain, as though he were paying rent to live there. I'd replayed what had happened in the garage over and over, until my version of events distorted. Excitement replaced the fear and the dark had a rose-tinted hue.
By the time I climbed aboard Rafe's yacht yesterday, I couldn't remember why he'd ever scared me in the first place.
He hadn't even touched my skin and yet, he lingered beneath it like a hot fever. I didn't want it to cool. I guess that's the only explanation I have for why I forced myself onto his tender boat. Why I probed him with questions, and tried to get under his skin too.
I learned real quick I was in over my head.
I learned how his touch felt, and even worse, I learned I liked it. The weight of his body on mine, the friction burning my wrists. The sharpness of his teeth and the heat of his glare as he stared down at me, like he didn't know whether to kill me or kiss me.
It was everything I've never had nor wanted, and still, his touch chased me home and through the front door, where I barely made it to my bedroom before my hand was between my thighs and my ragged breaths were dampening my pillow.
Finn's question is a simple one, but it twists my gut into knots. We're close, sure, but his coldness is a direct result of the only other time I felt like this, so I flash him a weak smile instead.
"I'm a busy bee, honey. What's up?"
If he notices my tone is tighter than usual, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he ducks out of view, then reappears holding a stack of books.
He drops them on the desk with a deft thud. "I've dug out some of my old textbooks from my pre-law days at Silvercrest. They're a little dated, but I've spoken to Professor Barton, and he's confirmed the syllabus hasn't changed all that much. I thought it'd be good for you to get a head start on the reading material before the fall." He looks up at me, expression hardening. "What do you think?"
The silence crackles between the paper skyscrapers and sagging brown boxes. I see his chest tighten beneath his cable-knit sweater. I know he's readying himself to jump down my throat the moment my usual excuses start pouring out of it—I can't say that I blame him.
Despite having deferred my place at Silvercrest for two years in a row, following my uncle's footsteps into law was actually my idea. Initially, I just wanted to live out my Elle Woods fantasy, but when the midnight emails started coming in, I realized being a defense lawyer for the voiceless is the ultimate good deed. It would shatter that one sentence, five words, and thirty-five characters, including spaces, into a million pieces, and finally make the emails stop.
Though my GPA was good and I took part in every extracurricular that didn't involve sweating, I was far from an Ivy League candidate. It took a little discretion and a whole lot of nepotism to secure me my place. Uncle Finn pulled strings like a master puppeteer. He called in a favor from his golf buddy on the Silvercrest admissions team, and another from a former classmate who works on the American Bar Association's scholarship committee.
Finn has put everything on the line for me, and more times than I deserve.
I can't let him down again.noveldrama
He's still staring at me across the office, his jaw locked and loaded for a fight. So I swallow the familiar knot in my throat and grind down the rising panic between my back teeth.
"I think that's a great idea, thank you."
As his face spreads into a broad grin, emotion prickles at the back of my eyes. I love it when Finn smiles.
After the incident, he didn't smile at me for months.
"Phew." He leans back in his chair and puffs out a breath, blowing away all the tension between us. "I'll drop these off on your porch in the morning, then."
I nod and move farther into the room, straightening piles of paperwork and picking up empty coffee cups. The modern, minimalist design throughout the rest of the cottage stops sharply at his office door. Behind it, it's forever September. It smells like the first day of school, like sharpened pencils, leather-bound books, and dust.
"Speaking of things showing up on my porch." I shut a cabinet drawer with the bump of my hip. "Why'd you leave your boots on my porch this morning? I hope you weren't expecting me to clean them."
He frowns. "What boots?"
"Those hideous black lace-ups." I screw up my nose at the memory. "I mean, honestly. Do you really need steel toes to hammer a few shelves together?"
He lets out a dismissive laugh, opens his MacBook, and lazily scrolls through a document on the screen. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Wren."
I open my mouth to call him a liar, but a sudden realization severs my vocal cords.
The boots waiting on my front porch this morning aren't Finn's.
My heart kicks my sternum, and a cheap high rushes through my bloodstream.
Of course they belonged to Gabriel. But why? Was it some sort of threat? Part of another lesson? A cryptic game I didn't know we were playing?
It doesn't make sense, but then again, nothing about Gabriel Visconti makes sense.
Gosh. Maybe I was right—this man really does have a crush on me.
I feel like I'm floating, delirious at the mere thought. Catching my breath, I concentrate on the bookshelf behind Finn's desk to stop my thoughts from spiraling. I read the title on every book spine and the looping signatures on every certificate. I scan from left to right, and when I reach the end of the middle shelf, I freeze.
My mother's staring back at me.
I set down the coffee cups and reach for the photograph with a trembling hand.
She and Finn are sitting on the front steps of a Georgian house. Her head rests against his and her arm is tightly wrapped around his shoulder, as though she'd yanked him into frame.
It must have been taken in the nineties. A lazy summer memory, shot on film and sealed in glass.
If we were a normal family, I'd have picked it up and smiled. Poked fun of my mother's over-plucked eyebrows and Finn's spiky boy-band hair, before asking a million questions about when it was taken and why. But I don't want to peel back the bark on our family tree; I want to chop it down. Cut it into logs and burn it.
Because looking at this photo of my mother hurts.
Finn's chair groans beneath him, and the heat of his stare brushes up my back.
I turn around. "I thought you got rid of all the photos of her?"
He stares at the frame in my hands, running two fingers across his lips. "I did. Every photo except that one," he murmurs, a sadness creeping in behind his glasses. "I had to keep that one."
Emotion clogs my throat. "But why?"
He releases a slow breath and cocks his head, as if thinking of the best way to answer.
"Because," he eventually says, "she reminds me to be the good in the world."
My gaze falls back down to my mother. Calypso-blue eyes warm enough to light bonfires, a grin broad enough to bridge two oceans together.
As I put her back on the shelf, my comedown is violent.
Once upon a time, I made a vow to be the good in the world too.
If only it came naturally.
An hour later, I'm in my robe, cocooned in one of Finn's Hermès blankets, being bad again. Though my morals have never extended to adhering to his strict rule about eating snacks on his cream sofas, anyway.
I shift, and the chip bag crinkles in my pocket.
Finn doesn't look away from the TV, but his brows draw together, just like they do when he's reviewing a contract he already suspects is dodgy.
"Do you want to tell me what that noise is," he asks evenly, "or should I start cataloging evidence?"
I pretend I haven't heard him, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Elle Woods introducing herself to the Harvard admissions committee in a pink sequin bikini.
"Ridiculous," he mutters, smoothing down the front of his slacks. "Harvard doesn't even accept multimedia applications."
I roll my eyes. Finn watches every movie like he's cross-examining it for inconsistencies. Spine rigid, ears pricked. All he's missing is his notebook.
"Legally Blonde is the greatest law film of all time." I pop another chip into my mouth and gulp it down whole. The sharp edges catch the back of my throat, and I try not to cough. "So just shut up and enjoy it."
The sound of my cell buzzing cuts his protest short. It buzzes again, and again, until the whole sofa is vibrating beneath me.
I flip it over on the armrest without looking at the screen and snuggle deeper beneath the blanket. I knew it was coming, because there's no way Tayce would have read my vague text bailing on tonight's plans and not put up a fight.
It's Rafe Visconti's poker party tonight. He holds it in Devil's Hollow every year, deep within the caves beneath the town. Everyone on the Coast knows about it, and they'd pry the invite out of your cold, dead hands, given half the chance. Not that it'd be much use though, because rumor has it, the buy-in alone could clear a mortgage.
All the stories I've ever heard about it have been hand-me-downs. It's always someone who knows someone who knows someone else, that's worked at the event in some minor capacity. It's the first time I've ever been invited, of course. And for free, at that. I guess there have to be some perks to your best friend marrying a Visconti.
I've been excited about it for weeks. I bought a new dress I couldn't afford. Practiced my poker face in the mirror. I've daydreamed about locking eyes with a handsome gentleman across a velvet roulette table, and my arm brushing against his when he slides up to me later at the bar.
But recently, the suave man in my fantasy has distorted. Now he's rougher, darker. He lurks in the shadows instead of sitting across the table. Locking eyes with him cuts, and if I were brave enough to brush against him, I've no doubt it would burn.
An electric shudder zaps through me. I pull the blanket over my mouth, and bite into a chip with a decisive chomp.
I told myself I'd be extra good from now on. I don't know what that looks like anymore, only that it doesn't look like spending an evening anywhere near the Boogeyman.
Another buzz. I ignore it again, but Finn doesn't bother hiding his irritation this time. "You kids and your cell phones. If this were a movie theater, you'd be kicked out."
"If this were a movie theater, I'd be allowed to eat popcorn—"
A heavy knock lands on the front door, slicing my sarcastic comment in half. I bolt upright, my stomach flipping, because for one dizzying second, I think it's him.
Finn tuts, twitches the curtain, then turns his attention back to the screen. "Tell Tayce if she breaks my door, she's paying for a new one."
Oh jeez. Not Tayce. Suddenly, finding Gabriel haunting Finn's front porch seems like a less scary alternative.
I pad down the hall, collecting my excuses as I go. When I crack the door open, Tayce is standing beneath the porch light, her arms crossed and her eyebrow hitched up to her hairline.
"Tayce?" I whisper, squinting out into the night. "Is that really you? My fever's so high, I think I'm hallucinating."
Her gaze narrows. "Stop it."
"Don't come any closer," I croak, holding up a feeble hand. "I'm contagious."
"If bullshit were contagious, you'd wipe out the entire Coast."
"Honestly, I'm sick."
"And I'm sick of you."
Pressing the back of my hand against my forehead, I let out a weary sigh. But she's still standing there, stone-faced, so I launch into a coughing fit instead.
I peek up at her. Nope. Zero sympathy.
She purses her lips. "You done?"
"For now," I whimper, clutching my chest.
"Good. Now, do your makeup, put on a cute dress, and—"
"I'm not going and you can't make me!"
The words shoot out harsher than intended, all desperation and no croak.
Tayce blinks. Cocks her head to the side, and sweeps a wary eye down my crumb-flecked robe.
"What's really going on, Wren?"
The sudden softness in her tone makes my throat feel all tight. Guess the age-old warning to be careful what you wish for is true. I wanted Tayce's sympathy, but now I realize I'm too weak to handle it.
I fiddle with the door's safety chain and try to stop my bottom lip from trembling. "Nothing's going on."
"Well, you've been acting weird all day. You haven't been answering your phone or replying to my texts. Not even when I sent you that video of the puppy having a spa day."
My lips tilt. "That was cute."
She lets out a breath of a laugh. "Looked more like animal cruelty to me, but hey, I knew you'd like it."
For a moment, neither of us say anything. Tayce studies me like she'll find the truth if she looks hard enough. I look down at the fresh manicure I had done especially for tonight instead.
Eventually, she breaks the silence. "Sure you don't want to talk about it?"
I open my mouth, then close it again. Because it's not even a question of where to start, but where to end. If I told her about the incident in the garage or on the tender boat, I'd have to tell her about the lessons. Why they exist in the first place. It'd lead to the night we met, and the lessons, and the dark.
It's a whole can of worms not worth opening.
I shake my head, small and tight.
Her eyes search mine for another beat, then she gives a decisive nod. "Fine. Have you got any pajamas I can borrow?"
"Um, yeah?"
"That aren't pink and frilly?"
"Oh. Then, no." I watch as she pops off her earrings and slips them into her coat pocket. "What are you doing?"
"If you're bailing, I'm bailing too." She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of my house. "We can put on face masks and oil our hair and watch TikTok videos." Her nose scrunches. "I'll even let you put on a musical. Not "Grease!", though," she adds with a shudder. "It reminds me of Benny."
Though it sounds like the perfect evening, I dismiss the idea with a flap of my hand. "You've got to go, the dress you bought looks amazing on you."
She shrugs. "So, what's new? Everything looks amazing on me."
"Well, what about Rory?"
"She'll be fine. Penny's going, and the two of them have got this whole scam thing going on."
My ears prick up. "Penny's going to the poker night?"
"Of course. She'll be so bummed you're not going, though."
"You think so?"
"Oh, I know so," she says, flicking her long, black hair over her shoulder. "I bumped into her in Cove the other night. She said you're the kindest girl she's ever met."
I straighten up. "Did she really?"
"Uh-huh. She said you're so pretty too, and that she couldn't wait to see what you were going to wear, because you always have the cutest outfits on."
"Yeah?" I'm grinning now, my cheeks hot with pride. "What else did she say?"
Tayce rolls her eyes. "That you're the biggest compliment fisher on the planet."
"Well, I did buy the cutest dress," I muse, ignoring her dig. "It'd be a shame to waste it." I strum my fingers on the door frame and chew on my bottom lip. "Besides, I'd hate to let Penny down. I really want us to be friends with her, you know?"
A smirk stretches across Tayce's face, like she knows she's already won.
I let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Well, I suppose I'm feeling a bit better."
As I sit on the bottom step, tug on my boots, and shout my goodbyes down the hall to Finn, I try to ignore the screaming voice at the base of my skull. It's begging me not to go, but I drown it out with water-thin reasoning and empty promises, like Gabriel will be easy to avoid.
Besides, my dress was really expensive.