Page 6 of Double Bucked

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CLAIRE

I’m on the beautiful Scottish hills, at the beautiful Aivenmoore Club, with my beautiful fiancé and our beautiful friends, and I’m so bored I could scream.

The Aivenmoore Club is a private country club for the rich and pampered. The red wine I’m sipping comes from the very grapes that grow along the highlands, but even that isn’t enough to stave off sure death if I have to stand still a moment longer.

My fiancé and I stand under the canopy near the main house, and I’m forced to watch as our friends play croquet below. Friends is, perhaps, a generous term, but they are acquaintances in our wealth bracket, which is good enough.

James stands beside me. He’s enclosed his body in a tight navy blue suit with white trousers. White AirPods are fitted into the shell of his ears. Sometimes, he’s taking calls with clients (as a financial advisor with clients all around the world, the calls come day and night). But most of the time, he’s listening to podcasts about ancient history, or post-modern art, or whatever his hyperfixation is at the time.

“Why can’t I play?” I ask.

James’s eyes are fixed on his phone. Without lifting his gaze from the screen, he answers, “Because, darling, you’re the Queen of Hearts.”

“What does that mean?”

“When you play, heads roll.”

I cross my arms and scowl.

“James!” Addy waves her hand, smile across her mouth. “You’re up!”

James takes out his earbuds, tucks them into his blazer pocket, and then steps through the grass to join the game.

If you went to Google and typed in, “Upper-class British Snob Who is Socially Awkward But It Somehow Makes Him More Attractive,” this is what would pop up:

James Calloway. Lanky. Black hair knotted into tight, tiny curls. Sky-blue eyes that rest behind slim glasses. He’s tall and slender as a pole. His body is quietly toned, with muscles that shy away under button-up shirts. The first time I saw him naked, I was, honestly, open-mouth shocked by the six-pack that lived underneath his unassuming costume. Among his attributes include a wonderfully masculine dusting of arm hair and dark commas of eyebrows that rest above his perpetually downcast eyes.

I watch as he settles his body into perfect form, and he gives a single, sure swing of the mallet.

He has, objectively, a perfect ass in light trousers.

None of this softens the sting of being sidelined while everyone else has fun.

My clutch buzzes. I welcome the distraction and take my phone out.

The area code makes my heart sink.

Kentucky.

The ghost of my childhood creeps like mist around me, and I shiver.

I almost let it ring. I almost don’t answer. But then…

Curiosity kills the cunt.

I hold my phone to my ear. “Yes?”

“Miss Claire Preacher?” The voice has familiar Southern grit, but I don’t recognize it at all.

“Who am I speaking to?”

“This is Deputy Holden Calhoun of the Belleflower Police Department.”

Ice water slides down my spine. I’m trying to sound calm, but my voice pitches. “How did you get this number?—?”

He ignores my question. “I’m afraid I’m calling with bad news.” He lets his words hang. My heart is in my throat. “Your father has passed away.”

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