You Own My Heart (The Blackwells of Crystal Lake 4)

Hudson’s eyes settled on her, and it took everything in Honey not to bolt like a jackrabbit and run for the hills.

“We haven’t.” A smile touched his face. “But I’ve heard of you. I seem to remember one of Travis’s buddies going a little gonzo over you last summer.”

Nash scowled. “Zach is a jackass.”

Honey ignored Nash, her focus on the man in front of her. He was handsome. All the Blackwell men were. But this one’s eyes, they freaked her out. They were way too familiar. Her heart sped up, and she licked her lips

Hudson nodded toward Nash. “You couldn’t pay me to work for this guy.”

“Your wife had no complaints,” Nash retorted.

“My wife is too polite,” Hudson said with a chuckle, his eyes back on Honey. “Nice to see you’ve finally landed a lady friend.”

“Oh, we’re not…” Honey cleared her throat and tried to make her mouth work. “Nash is just my boss.”

Hudson’s eyebrows rose.

“It’s true.” Nash doffed his coat and tossed it on a hook along with Honey’s jacket. “This was just a goodwill gesture on my part. Honey and I aren’t even friends. Isn’t that what you said earlier?”

Honey didn’t hear Nash or see the way Hudson watched her. She didn’t notice the baby reaching for her, or Hudson’s wife getting to her feet. Her gaze was drawn across the room, to the old man she’d not noticed before. He’d been sitting on an overstuffed navy chair and slowly stood up. Beside him was a woman, older, attractive, with silvery hair and a smart burgundy dress. They were chatting to each other, th

e woman’s hand on his arm in an intimate fashion. The old man spoke to Rebecca, and all three headed toward Honey.

Her heart sped up, and adrenaline pumped through her veins. Her ears were full of white noise, and her vison blurred. She gave her head a little shake to make it stop, but it was no use. This train was real, and there was no way to stop it.

She watched as Rebecca, Hudson’s wife, grabbed up the old man’s jacket. He used a cane, but his expression as he rested it against a chair was filled with disgust. The older woman helped him into his jacket and pulled a wool poncho across her shoulders. They continued forward, a smile on the woman’s face as she gazed up at Nash. The man? He was busy kissing his grandson goodbye.

“Nash, so nice to see you. How are your parents?” the woman asked, her voice genuine and warm.

“They’re good.” Nash paused. “This is Honey.” A pause. “Honey, this is Darlene.”

Honey forced herself to look at the woman and pasted a smile to her face. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured, the hairs at the back of her neck on edge as the Blackwell patriarch turned her way.

All the white noise in her head died as she gazed at him. Her heart rate slowed, her breathing stalled until there was nothing but John Blackwell and Honey.

His skin had a sallow tinge to it, his full head of hair gray and white. He was slightly stooped but still of considerable height. She saw the man he was, saw it in his son Hudson. And those eyes. They were faded, their blue not quite as crystal clear or startling in their clarity. But they were as familiar as the back of her hand.

They locked on to her for all of three seconds before Nash introduced her.

He gave a small nod, the lines around his mouth and eyes filled with fatigue, before moving to Nash. The shock of those three seconds left Honey breathless. Disoriented. She heard the people around her making pleasantries. Saying their goodbyes. And then she moved aside as he and his lady friend headed for the door.

The entire exchanged lasted less than a minute or so, but the rest of the evening was nothing but a blur for Honey. She was good at presenting a façade. It seemed she’d been acting her entire life. Always being the person her mother needed her to be. Always hiding her emotions, her very self, it seemed, because it was what she had to do to survive.

Honey got through the football game and managed the ride back to the bar without breaking into a million pieces. She said goodbye to Nash, aware that his gaze lingered a little too long and that maybe there were some questions there. Maybe she’d not been as good at hiding as she’d thought.

She left him in the dark and hurried up the stairs to her apartment, her cell phone in hand before she closed the door behind her. Leaning against the door, she pushed aside a tendril of hair that stuck to her sweaty neck, and in the soft glow from her device, she made the call.

After two rings, a sleepy voice answered.

“It’s me,” Honey whispered. A long pause, and she heard rustling. “I met him.”

The sound of a door closed, and the husky voice filled her ear once more. “What was it like?” The whisper slid into the silence, and Honey slowly exhaled. She felt the sting of tears and clenched her free hand so tightly, she knew she drew blood. Her best friend, Simone, waited patiently as the long seconds ticked into at least a minute. She turned around and rested her forehead on the door. It was cool against her hot skin. When Honey felt she could speak, she cleared her voice and slammed her eyes shut.

“Honey Bee?”

“He looked right through me,” she said.

“He doesn’t know you. Not yet.”