Travis (Pelion Lake 1)

I opened my mouth to ask her what she was thinking about when a soft knock from the front of the house made both our heads turn. I frowned. Who would be here this early?

Betty wasn’t even up.

I walked to the foyer and stopped abruptly, seeing Phoebe’s golden head through the upper glass portion of the wide front door.

What. The. Hell?

I glanced back to see Haven standing behind me, a questioning look on her face, watering can by her side, as she blinked at the woman on the other side of the door.

“It’s Phoebe,” I said.

Haven’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

I stared at Haven a moment. I wasn’t sure what to say. This had been the very last thing I’d expected. Frankly, I’d almost forgotten Phoebe existed. I wasn’t sure that said great things about me, but there it was.

I had this strange, out-of-body feeling like two worlds were colliding, and I was having trouble orienting myself.

“You should let her in,” Haven said. I couldn’t exactly discern what was in her tone, though there was something almost . . . resigned in her expression.

“Right,” I said. “I should. Let her in.” She obviously saw me, was standing there watching through the glass. But my gaze stayed stuck to Haven.

Haven raised her hand, waving it behind her. “I’ll just . . . go shower. Give you two . . . some privacy.”

Clawdia batted at my hand, the one that had ceased petting her and was currently resting on her head. I let out a sigh. Fuck. This was weird. But maybe it was necessary. “Thanks.” I’d go to her afterward, tell her what happened.

I took the several steps to the front door, pulling it open. Phoebe stood there in white shorts and a yellow tank top, her gaze going over my shoulder to where Haven had turned and was scurrying away.

“Hi,” Phoebe said softly, nervousness dancing over her face.

“Hi,” I said distractedly, glancing back to where Haven was just disappearing up the stairs. I wanted to follow her. I wanted to resume the peaceful, easy morning we’d been enjoying.

When I looked back at Phoebe, she was looking at the stairs, a small crease between her perfectly arched brows. Her gaze met mine again. “The maid’s up early . . .” Phoebe noted, her frown deepening. “And isn’t wearing much.”

My jaw tensed. “She’s not the maid. She’s a guest staying here.”

Phoebe looked momentarily confused. “Oh.” She glanced at the cat, her gaze landing on its stump of a leg, features contorting as she drew back.

I set Clawdia down gently, running my hand over her head. “How’d you know I was here?” I asked, standing straight.

“I . . . heard.”

Irritation snaked through me. Damn this small town.

Phoebe moved from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry to hear about your house,” she said, gaze flitting away.

Was she? She’d never liked that house. She thought it was too average. And it was, but maybe—for her—I was too.

And maybe you agreed. Maybe that’s why you needed her to worship you.

Ouch. I felt confused suddenly, uneasy, awkward even.

Phoebe was watching me and some of the color had gone out of her face. She was obviously even more uncomfortable than I was. “I know you get up early,” she said, speaking quickly as though I might throw her out any moment. “I figured I might be able to catch you before work. I thought . . . well, I thought it was better if I just bit the bullet and came over rather than calling.” She let out an uncomfortable laugh that ended abruptly. She hadn’t thought I’d take her call. Would I have? Maybe not. She looked down, bit at her lip, looking unusually meek. When she glanced up through her lashes, her eyes were shiny. “Can we talk?” she asked.

“Sure.” I led her into the sitting room near the front of the house. She sat down on the couch and I took the chair across from it. She stared at me for a few moments and I detected her nervousness, but I also saw cautious hope.

“This is awkward,” she said softly. “But I . . . I know I owe you an explanation.”

I sighed. What was there to explain? I didn’t really require an explanation. Now, anyway. But I was willing to listen to one if she needed to say it. I resisted glancing toward the doorway with a view of the stairs. The ones I wanted to rush toward.

Phoebe nodded once, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “That day . . . I was drinking.” She shook her head. “I’m not using that as an excuse. But I was. And I met Easton and, God, he made me feel worshipped. Like I was the only woman in the world. And it was like a drug. I gave in, and I hate myself for it.” The last few words trailed off, into nothing.