No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

The men don’t change their expressions.

Typical of hired assholes.

Still, the way Paye turns back and looks at me, the venom in her eyes hides nothing.

I have a feeling this is far from over.

This is just a cease-fire.

Not the end of the war.

Without a word, she lifts her head, regal as a monster princess. She waits for one of the men to open the car door for her, then takes his offered hand to lift her up into the back seat, handling her with delicate practice.

The royal and her retinue, indeed.

I don’t relax, not till one of them gets behind the wheel, the others flank Paye in a protective phalanx, and I hear the engine humming.

Finally, the SUV goes rolling down the street, gliding as dark and silently as an eel.

The moment the car turns the corner, out of sight, Felicity collapses against my side.

I barely catch her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders to hold her up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispers in a broken mantra before raising her voice. I can hear Langley losing his shit on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry,” she says again, louder this time. “No—no, it’s fine, you don’t need to come, Sheriff. It was a bunch of out-of-town assholes playing a prank. No one’s hurt. I know they need you at the festival.”

“You sure?” I murmur, keeping my voice low. “You might need the cops on this, Fliss.”

Not him, she mouths, shaking her head, then speaking into the phone again.

“Sure, I’ll let you know if they come back. Thanks—I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Then she hangs up, her entire body sagging against me bonelessly, her arm falling to dangle limply with her phone barely clutched in her fingers.

“Oh my fucking stars,” she mumbles against my chest, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say anything worse than damn, maybe a quick shit when Eli and I destroyed her leaning tower of mugs. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry you got dragged into this. There are no words.”

“Relax. I’m just glad I showed up when I did.” I grip her shoulders gently, looking down at her pale face, the stark fear in her eyes and the drying tear tracks on her cheeks. “Get your dog, Fliss.”

I glance past her. That little puffball bounces in the doorway, yapping and growling like he did something heroic, barking clear into the night.

“We’re getting out of here,” I tell her.

“We are?” She blinks, lifting her head and looking up at me blankly. “Why? Why when you know how...how bad it is now...”

“Because I was right to move you in with me and dead wrong for thinking you should ever come back here alone. You’re not safe anywhere she can find you. No more trips back here without me. Get the dog, get anything else you need for a long-term stay, and let’s move. We need to talk.”

Pulling everything out of her the hard way is the last thing I want, but her murky business almost got me killed.

She owes me answers, and not just because I’m interested in keeping my own ass in one piece.

I’m in this now. Fully.

That means I need to know what’s going on behind the curtain. It’s pretty obvious she’s been filtering the full picture, obscuring where that gold truly came from, who’s involved, and just how much peril she’s in.

Before, it was all a big fat hypothetical and a dash of suspicions.

It sure as hell isn’t now.

Fliss moves around me anxiously as she packs up a few more things. I take it on myself to pick up the cash strewn all over the living room and stuff it into the bag left behind.

I’m glad our mini killer didn’t clean her out again—though now I know where all her money’s been going.

Straight down a deep, dark chute leading to a psycho’s piggy bank.

It’s a silent trip save for Shrub’s excited yapping as we pile into my Jeep and head to my cabin. We’d never put an official time limit on Felicity’s stay besides some vague hints about a solid week.

Now, I don’t want to let her out of my sight for a fucking second without that sideshow after her behind bars.

She stares down at her lap the entire drive, silent and withdrawn.

I’d almost think she was mad at me if she didn’t look so worn.

I’d think I was mad at her, if I didn’t throb with worry every time I look at her.

Part of me says I should be mad.

If she’d just come clean, we might’ve avoided that insta-brush with death. I would’ve known how serious this was sooner, and I could’ve made damned sure she was never in a position to wind up alone and afraid with that murderous woman-child.

Thank fuck I didn’t mention my kid in front of that freak.