“I don’t talk,” I toss over my shoulder as I round the gaslight at the center of the garden. “And I don’t date.”
“At least one of those is a lie,” Mick says with a laugh, clearly thinking I’m joking or something.
I stop, spinning to face him and pulling in a deep breath, wanting to make sure he gets my message loud and clear. “I’m serious. I don’t want to go for coffee or anything else. We should just forget this happened.”
“Why?” The humor vanishes from his expression. “Not to overstep, but…I’ve kissed enough women to know kisses like that don’t happen every day. That was special, Faith, and I know you felt it, too.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” I stand up straighter, determined not to show weakness again tonight. “Goodbye. Have a good night.”
I turn, jog the rest of the way to the back door and hurl myself into the warmth of the ballroom. But despite the roaring fire and the heat pumping through the vents, the air inside feels colder than it did before.
Colder than before Mick Whitehouse woke this hungry, needy part of me that I can already tell is going to be hell to put back to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
Naomi
I check the coats and wander over to the fireplace, but Jake isn’t there to meet me. I wait for a few minutes, warming my back and fingers, before deciding he must have been waylaid at the refreshment table.
But when I finally thread my way through the crowd to the cookie displays, there’s no trace of Jake or Maddie’s to-die-for caramel medallions, just an unhappy-looking Faith slipping out into the garden.
I send Mick to check on her—he could use a few more friends his age and is always up for doing a good deed—and grab a maple walnut cookie before heading back to the fireplace.
But there’s still no sign of Jake.
I nibble my cookie slowly, assuming he must be stuck in line for the restroom or have been kidnapped by people needing him to carry things, but after another fifteen minutes, I start to worry.
After twenty, I do a thorough search of the ballroom and adjoining rooms in the historical home before taking my search outside, so worried I scarcely notice the cold. But I make it all the way around the house to the parking lot without seeing a soul.
Assuming Jake and I must be chasing each other in circles, I turn back toward the ballroom, determined to stay by the fireplace until he finds me, when an engine rumbles to life in the lot. I turn, surprised to see Jake’s truck backing swiftly out of its spot and peeling toward the exit with a speed that isn’t like him.
Jake doesn’t drive like that, especially in places where there might be people around who could get hurt. He must have loaned his truck to someone.
Someone who needs to calm the hell down before they head into Bliss River…
I start across the lot to see who’s at the wheel, but before I even get close, the driver pulls onto the road heading away from town and roars off into the darkness.
“Shit,” I mutter, shivering as I cross my arms over my chest. I should have held on to my coat and my purse. If I had, I could call Jake to let him know where I am, and that whoever has his truck might have had a bit too much spiked cider.
In fact, that’s probably the best plan of action.
I’m on my way inside to get back in line for the coat check and reclaim my purse when I spot Jamison. He emerges from between two minivans, his swift footsteps crunching on the parking lot gravel and his breath coming fast enough to send up steady puffs of smoke into the frozen air.
“Jamison, wait,” I call out, lifting a hand. “Do you know who has Jake’s truck? I just saw…”
He turns to me, I get a good look at his face in the light streaming from the glowing house, and my words die in my mouth.
I can’t remember what I was saying. I can’t speak at all. I can only stare at the blood dripping from Jamison’s split lip for a long beat before dragging my gaze up to meet his.
As soon as our eyes meet, my throat squeezes tight and my chest clenches, and the missing pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
“You told him,” I say, my voice rough.
It’s a statement, not a question, but Jamison still nods—his gaze dropping to the ground as he drags a hand through his hair.
“Why?” I croak as I cross the gravel toward him, trembling now for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. “Why did you do that? What were you thinking?”
“I thought he deserved the truth,” Jamison mumbles.