Page 63 of Wicked Games

I shudder. I was thirteen, then. He’s been following me for that long?

Longer.

I roll my head to the side and look at him. Am I expecting to see something different? It’s no surprise that he’s already watching me. I don’t think he’s taken his eyes off of me.

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t been happy since you told.”

“Since Itold? Told what?”

“Careful, Margo,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell you if you want to know. But there are some things you probably aren’t ready to hear.”

I press my lips together. “Was there a field of tall grass that we used to go play in?”

“Not that I remember. Just the park. Why?”

“I had a dream,” I say. “You and my mom were arguing. Maybe it wasn’t you, and it was your dad. It looked like you, though, but older. Mom got so mad, she threw a glass.”

“You were hiding outside.”

I blink at him. “That was real?”

“Yes. They argued sometimes. Chefs are known to have hot tempers… and my dad had one, too.” His expression darkens. “Not always, mind you. I think he was good to me. But if the right button was pushed…”

I take a breath.

“What else happened in the dream?” His fingers twitch on his thigh.

“Mom came into my room and shook me.”

He nods like that, too, is normal. Orreal. “She held in a lot of anger until she couldn’t.”

“Because of something I did?”

Caleb’s lips part in slow motion, and I regret asking. He already gave me the warning that he would answer any question.

I lunge across the seat, slapping my hand over his lips. “Don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”

His lips move against my palm, and his eyes crease. A smile. Even if I can’t see it, I know it’s devious. He’s a wicked boy, playing wicked games with my heart.

Slowly, I remove my hand. I brush my thumb along his lower lip, and his smile fades. He doesn’t come toward me like he might’ve before. Something’s changed between us in just a few days.

“Kiss me.”

I shake my head. There are more questions, but right now, every beat of my heart is screaming at me to lean forward and touch him more. And every ounce of my brain begs me to run away.

The heart can only win so many times.

I fling the door open and jump out, running back toward the house. It’s easier to sneak in. I haven’t been gone long enough for them to come down and lock me out. I kick off my shoes and shed my jacket in the mudroom, then grab a glass of water—a plausible excuse if I’ve ever heard one.

And it’s a good thing, too, because Robert appears at the top of the stairs.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

I nod, plastering on a smile to hide my alarm.

“Yeah, I just woke up with a dry throat.” I lift the glass as evidence.

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