Conceal

“Where are you from, Mars?” She lifts an unamused eyebrow at my comment. “Speaking of, where are you from?”

“No comment.”

“No name. No job. No location. You’re not making this easy for me, Casper.”

“Casper?”

“Like the ghost.”

“Wow. Is that supposed to be a nickname or something?”

“Or something,” I chide. “I got it. Not only do I know your job, but now your location.”

This time, no terror appears in her eyes at my joke. She must know me well enough to see my sense of humor. She stops walking, tapping her foot impatiently on the black pavement beneath us, so I stop too.

“You, my dear Casper, are no ghost. No. You are the daughter of a missionary raised in the wild. With no bagels and no knowledge of New York.” I grin and watch for any truth. Her eyes roll.

“That’s the best you can do?” She laughs.

“Nope, I have plenty up my sleeve.”

“Well, you’ll need that because you aren’t even close.”

“Good. It means more time with you.” I wink and then turn and start walking.

“How much longer?”

“With you?” I say over my shoulder playfully. “Or until we are there?”

“What do you think?” I love how sarcastic she is; it makes me chuckle.

“Fifteen blocks. Work up your appetite.”

She stops moving again. Glancing over my shoulder, I look at what’s taking so long. Her hand is on her stomach, and she’s puffed out her cheeks.

“I can’t possibly eat again,” she groans.

“Wait till you see what I’m feeding you, and you might disagree.”

“That didn’t come out dirty at all.” She laughs.

It’s a sound I can get used to. I’ve heard it a few times, but the more I hear it, the more I like it. The more I want to hear it again.

Great, just great.

Chapter Twenty-One

Willow

I had way too much fun with Jaxson. So much fun, I’m thinking twice about calling him again because this could get complicated. Who am I kidding? It already is.

I know what I need from him, but I’m not sure I can do this without my feelings getting confused. One thing I can’t do is catch feelings.

The last time I did that, it was catastrophic. But Jax is different. He’s someone I want to be friends with. He’s someone I want to see if I can trust—if he can help me—because as much as I want to do this alone, I need help.

Desperately. If I’m being honest with myself, Jaxson Price might be my only hope.

Instinct tells me I can trust him. Being near Jax is like reading a book from my favorite author. I don’t know what happens next, but I know I’ll like it.

A few days have passed since the last time I’ve seen him. My searches so far haven’t turned up anything. I can’t think of any allies, no one back home to talk to, and I can’t go back home until I find the information I need. The thing is, just because I had one good night with Jaxson doesn’t mean he’ll help me.

I need to make him want to be there for me. I need us to be friends. And the only way to do that is to pick up the damn phone.

The idea of using him, however, doesn’t sit well in my stomach. It makes it churn with repulsion. When did I become the girl to use someone?

But is it really using him if I want to be with him? That’s the thing, sure I need his help, but I also like spending time with him. He makes me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time.

He makes me feel normal.

I should call him.

Bite the bullet already.

He hasn’t called me since the first time. I know what he’s doing. He’s putting the ball in my court, and I respect him even more for that. Since time is not on my side, I pick up my phone and hit his contact.

“Took you long enough,” he answers.

“If you wanted to speak to me so badly, you could have called me,” I respond, standing from the couch and pacing the small apartment.

I’m nervous, and I’m not sure why.

“What fun would that have been?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means now I know you miss me.”

That stops my movements. I’m happy he isn’t here to see me because I’m sure my mouth is hanging open as I try to think of something witty to cover up for the fact that he’s right. I did. But since I can’t think of anything, I lie.

“I hardly miss you. I just—”

“Missed me.”

“No.”

“Then what?” His voice rings with humor.

“I’m bored.”

“And?”

“Jeez, you’re impossible. Has anybody ever mentioned that to you?”

“Yeah, maybe one or two times.”

“Probably more like one hundred in the last week,” I deadpan.

“You were about to tell me how much you missed me.”

“I was actually going to tell you . . . you suck.” At this point, admitting that I want to hang out with him seems like torture.