Page 29 of Lost in the Moonlight

Anger found its way past the fear. I might have to take Poco seriously, but I didn’t have to let him and his stupid actions control me.

“Tell me why you don’t want the cops involved,” Lincoln demanded, crossing his arms over his broad chest, stance wide,and giving me a taste of why the world had named him the most handsome man under thirty. It wasn’t just his chiseled good looks. It was that dark superhero vibe wavering around him—broody millionaire and president’s son by day, avenging angel by night.

“Please don’t push me on this,” was all I could offer him. I might have to get the authorities involved, but it would likely be the Marshals rather than the Cherry Bay police.

But if I could just get a handle on it. If I could just make sure Poco stopped, it would be fine. Everything would go back to the way it had been.

I slipped out of my coat and took it and my bag into the office, giving myself some space and time to collect myself. I breathed in deeply, slowing my pulse, steadying my hands, and then replaced my skirt with an apron. By the time I’d returned to the kitchen, I’d pushed some of the worst emotions behind me, grounding myself again.

Lincoln was right where I’d left him, face still shadowed with concern.

“Just tell me one thing,” he said softly. “Before the incident with Poco yesterday, were you afraid?”

“No. I hadn’t been afraid in a couple of years.” I was glad I could say that with some truth. After Danny and Roci had been sentenced to life in prison, I hadn’t been scared. It had felt like our nightmare had finally come to an end. Deputy Marshal James had told us we still had to be smart, stay off social media, and keep our pictures off the internet because there was always the chance the Viceroys would seek revenge if they stumbled upon us. But Mom and I had both believed if we lived a quiet life, we’d be fine.

Lincoln’s intense eyes took in every breath, judging the sincerity of my words. I had no doubt he could see the truth or the lies I told, which only added to my unease. I held my breath, wondering if he’d truly let it drop, and was surprised when he did.

He turned to the counter and the pink box. “Do I get to see what’s in the box I carried?”

A little thrill at the thought of what I’d made pushed the fear and doubts back another notch. I hurried over before he could open the box, setting my hand on the lid and saying, “We can’t eat it. Not yet. I need Hector to see it first.”

His lips quirked upward. “That just means I have a reason to come back later.”

I rolled my eyes both at his tease and at the way my insides squished at the thought of seeing him again. What would Lincoln say if he knew just being with him could put me in as much danger as Poco’s threats? One random photo was all it took.

And it wasn’t just the danger of discovery that put me at risk. Every moment I spent with him, every smile he gave me, every kind word, every time he stepped in to protect me, risked my ridiculous heart. It made me wish for things that could never come true.

I swallowed hard, looking down at the box. I wanted to show him what I’d created. Artist to artist. I rubbed a finger along the opening, a wave of nervousness like I used to feel when I’d finished a project at culinary school and handed it over to be judged settled over me. What would Lincoln think of my attempt at recreating the beautiful mosaic out of nothing but flour and sugar and fruit?

I’d never know unless I risked showing him, and I’d promised myself I would take all the risks I could within the boundaries set by witness protection. Within the safety of the program. So, after taking a huge inhale, I held my breath and lifted the lid.

It took a moment for him to really register what it was, but there was admiration in his voice as he said, “Willow. This is…wow!”

I exhaled softly, his awed look spinning through me with the same exhilaration of spun sugar.

He tilted his head, assessing the layers from another angle. After a moment, he asked, “What is it supposed to be?”

My bubble popped. The idea that he didn’t know what it was had doubts creeping into my words. “It’s a mosaic. On a wall at the cemetery.”

He reached out as if to touch one of the tarts, and I snapped the lid shut. It was as much from my mortification at failing to capture the art as it was to keep him from touching it. His eyes flew back to mine, gaze skimming the heat filling my face.

“Wait. You’re embarrassed? Why would you be embarrassed?”

“It was just a ridiculous idea. It was fun, but it’s not like I could actually capture the genius of the original piece.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed again, eyes darkening. “Don’t do that. Don’t sell yourself short. If I hadn’t known you’d made that out of food, if I’d just glanced at it, I would have thought it was a beautiful painting.”

I snorted but was unable to meet his eyes.

“I’m serious. I know many chefs who consider the food they make art, but I never knew you could literally create a masterpiece with it. It’s interesting and stunning. The smellsof the fruit and the sugar combined with the visual colors and texture make it a different kind of genius, and believe me, I know genius when I see it. I’ve made my livelihood out of it.”

My eyes leaped to his, and my breathing turned erratic as he locked me in a tantalizing stare.

“I was just playing around,” I breathed out quietly. “It’s far from perfect.”

“Art isn’t supposed to be perfect.”

Those words spiraled through me, taking the attraction I felt for him and sending it to a whole new level. I felt raw from all the layers he’d pulled back in the mere hours I’d known him, revealing secret parts of me I’d kept hidden for so long.

---