Forbidden Fling (Wildwood 1)

“Shut up. It’s all I had. I was desperate.”

He laughed. “Then let me get you in.”

“Not if you’re going to break anything. I don’t need trouble with the only member of my family who still talks to me, and I’d like to get her on board with my plow-this-POS-into-the-ground plan, which will be easier if she’s not pissed.”

Something changed in his expression. A sort of comprehensive look of . . . she didn’t know what to call it. Ease? Relief? She was still trying to figure it out when he set his beer down and pushed to his feet. “I love the way you think, beautiful.” Drawing his wallet from his back pocket, he pulled a couple of small sticks from the billfold. “I might be breaking and entering, but I won’t break anything.”

She lifted a brow. “You carry lock-picking equipment in your wallet?”

“A Boy Scout is always prepared.” He grinned down at her. “That was another hint.”

“You were a Boy Scout? No wonder you never blipped my radar.”

He turned toward the bar’s front door, and the old wood creaked under his weight. After only a few seconds, a metallic pop sounded, followed by the familiar groan of the door. A sound that transported Delaney back in time and opened an icy vein down the middle of her chest.

Be careful what you wish for.

He turned and offered his hand. With a lump in her throat, Delaney set down her beer and took his hand, but she couldn’t fully appreciate his touch as she got to her feet. Then she glanced at her heels, trying to decide if it was safer with them or without them.

“Probably with them,” he said, reading her mind.

She slipped into her shoes with an almost overwhelming sense of angst rolling inside her now.

“Watch your step.” He glanced at her car—the lights still shone their direction—and his hand firmly wrapped around hers. It was big and rough and warm, and she preferred to think about those rough hands on her body than venturing into a coffin of nightmares. “You probably won’t be able to see too much in this light, so don’t go too far. I’ll wait out here while you look around.”

“Thanks.” The offer of space provided a sliver of relief. Sh

e turned a smile on him, holding tight to his hand. “Maybe I can take you out for a drink when we’re done here.”

The heat in his eyes sparked again, but something else clouded his expression. “Hold that thought, beautiful, but don’t be surprised if you change your mind.”

She tilted her head, not sure she’d heard him right. “What?”

“Nothing.” He pulled his hand from hers. “Go on.”

When she focused on the half-open door, a knot of dread tightened at the center of her chest. She blew out a slow breath. Twisted her fingers together. Cleared her throat.

But she couldn’t get her feet to move.

“You don’t have to do this tonight,” Brewmaster said behind her. “You could come back in the morning.”

She shook her head. “Better to just get it over with.”

With determined focus, she approached the door and paused on the threshold. That’s when the stench hit her. Stale alcohol. Corroding wood. Mold. She pressed one hand to the doorjamb and covered her nose and mouth with the other, forcing her feet to take two more steps into the bar. One sweep of the main seating area and the knot in her gut tightened. Everything was so familiar, yet not. The bar had always been as grungy as the customers it attracted, but now it looked decrepit. The ceiling bowed in places; the floor sagged in others. Even the walls seemed cockeyed.

Once her mother had left them, her father had lost all interest in keeping up the bar or their home. And Delaney could tell by looking at the state of the bar how far her father had fallen between the time she’d left town and the time he’d died.

An unexpected pang of sadness curled in the pit of her stomach, and seemed to twist the top off a container holding all the painful, heartbreaking memories from her childhood. Suddenly she was grateful she wasn’t alone, and she glanced back, half expecting to find the handsome stranger gone. But he stood right there, his expression pensive. He didn’t say anything, but she felt his support. And it helped.

On a deep breath, she faced forward again and moved into the space. Along the bar, bottles of liquor still lined the mirrored wall in a haphazard mishmash. Tables still bore the remnants of empty beer bottles and shot glasses, chairs stood askew, and peanut shells littered the floor, as if aliens had sucked every inhabitant into their spaceship and vanished.

The initial stench of the place seemed to fade with fresh air, and she lowered her hand from her face, venturing a little deeper, searching the haphazard light and shadows.

Her gaze held on the wood. Far more worn than the last time she’d seen it. And as if her eyes were drawn by a magnet, she stared at the spot where Ian had died. To where his blood had soaked the wooden floorboards. Floorboards that had clearly been replaced with newer wood that seemed to mark the spot like the stain her father had tried to remove.

All the memories flooded back at once, filling her head and jumbling her thoughts. All the guilt and shame she’d harbored all these years rushed back, squeezing her guts until they knotted. The flood of regret pushed her feet forward until she stood in the same place she’d dropped to her knees beside Ian that night. The same place she’d thrown her body over him to stop the violence.

But she’d been too late.