Page 18 of Lost in the Moonlight

I’d sort of gotten my feet underneath me by my second year at Bonnin and had even gone on a couple of dates with Chad. But he’d dropped me like a lead balloon once I’d hinted about the truth of my potential medical situation, and I’d stuck to the things that brought me the most pleasure. The Tea Spot. My friendship with Shay and the warm glow of Hector’s praise as I puttered around with his recipes.

Spring of my junior year, the trial had finally taken place, and I’d found myself retreating to the darkness of that first year. The look of anger and hate Aaron had shot me once the guilty verdict had been read was hard to forget. Hard to shake. But knowing the two men responsible for Dad’s death were in jail for the rest of their lives had allowed me to breathe easier. The riskthat any of the Viceroys would come after me had decreased by leaps and bounds after I’d testified.

I’d come back to Cherry Bay determined not to waste my life. I’d made a list of things I wanted to experience while living within the bounds of witness protection, and culinary school had been at the top. I’d accomplished it along with many more tiny, daily pleasures.

I wouldn’t let Poco take my good life away.

As I stepped out of the café, the wind snapped at me, sending a cloud of cherry blossoms whirling into the air much as it had the day before. I caught one in my hand, and the sweet color and smell sent a wave of ideas through me for the piece I was working on at home. For two seconds, everything around me disappeared as my mind filled with frosting and tarts and shades of pink.

Whistling brought me out of it. A sickly cheery tune that had goosebumps crawling over my arms. I jerked my head up from the petal, scanning the street.

Nothing.

No Poco. No lurking gang members.

A black Range Rover pulled up along the curb, and the passenger side’s tinted window rolled down to reveal Lincoln leaning over from the driver’s seat. “Get in. I’ll drive you home.”

Had he been waiting for me? That idea brought a wash of mixed emotions. Joy and hope that needed to be squashed. Irritation. Worry. It was all too dangerous. Too complicated.

I stepped over to the window. “I live literally five minutes away. It’s the middle of the day. No rain. No Poco. I’m fine.” But the echo of the whistle reverberated in my head, mocking me.

“If you don’t get in, I’ll get out and walk with you, but I’m running out of steam. So, do me a favor and climb in?” The firm set of his jaw told me he’d do just that.

As I opened the door, I told myself I was only getting in because of the shadows under his eyes that I didn’t want on my conscience, but a little voice was laughing at me. I was tempting fate. Daring the universe. All because of the lure of attraction buzzing inside me.

The warmth inside the vehicle had me shivering after the chill left over from the storm. I buckled my belt, and when Lincoln didn’t move from the curb, I looked over with a raised brow. “Home?”

Those strong and sensual lips quirked upward. “And where’s home?”

I laughed softly, realizing he had no idea we were neighbors. “Mom and I live in the cottage across the street from you.”

Surprise lit his eyes. “The house with the fairy-tale garden?”

I beamed up at him. “Yep. That would be us.”

He looked over his shoulder and pulled out into the lunchtime traffic. It was heavier this time of year with Bonnin’s semester in full swing and tourists flocking to the greater D.C. area for all the different cherry blossom festivals. Those first few years here, not knowing who was coming in and out of town, not knowing if one of them was looking for me, the volume of visitors had been disconcerting. Now, the ebb and flow of people was one more thing I loved about Cherry Bay.

Lincoln took a right at the stop sign, and the hustle of downtown turned into the quiet of houses tucked up against the meadowland bordering a forest of cypress trees. Neither of us spoke as he drove the short distance, the tension in the air causing me to tug at my necklace and fidget in my seat. Iexpected him to stop in front of our cottage, but instead, he pulled into his driveway. We got out in the same silence, meeting at the back of the SUV. I stopped there, ready to try and say goodbye one more time, but he simply strode across the street toward our gate.

“You don’t have to walk me to my door,” I called out to him.

He looked over his shoulder with one eyebrow raising. “You can’t get out of answering my questions that easily. Plus, I want a closer look at your garden.”

Bewilderment swam through me as he let himself into our yard. I really didn’t understand why my safety had become so important to him or why he so desperately needed answers. Maybe it was simply because I hadn’t been good at pushing him away. I’d sent mixed signals, teasing and smiling one moment and then trying to close the door the next. But the truth was, the pull I felt toward him was confusing. Heady and tantalizing, it was hard to find my way while juggling the new emotions. Juggling dreams with protocols.

By the time I caught up to him, Lincoln had stopped in the middle of our riverwalk path, spinning to take in the cherry tree at the back and the willow tree up front with its feather leaves in full bloom. In between was a chaotic mix of flowers and herbs and wild ground cover bursting with new buds. The yard had already been full of plants and color when we’d moved in, but Mom and I had added to it, making it into exactly the fairy-tale garden Lincoln had called it. One where imps and gnomes might come alive at night. Where the insects shared secrets and butterflies felt safe to rest their wings.

“It’s a bit of magic,” he said with a small grin that set my pulse flying. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost six years.”

“It’s beautiful. Peaceful.”

It was. Working on the garden had marked off a box in my journal. Life had bloomed and blossomed under my fingertips. Seeing Lincoln’s pleasure, the awe and contentment on his face, was another beautiful moment. It was an image I’d keep and cherish, just like the life and magic pouring from the garden.

I continued down the path to the cottage. The solid oak door stood out against the gray stones, white-washed plaster, and gingerbread Tudor trim. The leaded-glass windows in the dormers reflected the clouds drifting by, and the steeply pitched roof, now a faux-thatch, made it easy to imagine the prince and princess from the mural at the café calling it home.

Lincoln followed me to the door, and I tried once again to end our time together by saying, “Thanks for the ride.”

---