Page 14 of Wicked Little Secret

“Hey, babe, there you are. Looked everywhere for you. Thought you wanted to meet up after class?”

Nyssa seems caught between finishing our exchange and addressing Wicker. Her gaze pans from me to the large oaf, her face alight with surprise before she decides.

“Enjoy the coffee, Professor,” she murmurs. “Hope to see you at the art festival.”

Then she’s hitching her bookbag higher onto her shoulder and rushing toward the door. Wicker grins proudly when she meets him where he is and he gets to curl a possessive arm around her waist.

Never mind that twenty-four hours ago he was loudly boasting in the student union about bedding her…

I watch unblinkingly, wordlessly, almost fixed into a trance.

I’m staring so long that the door thuds shut. So long that I don’t realize my red pen has veered off the page… and begun to mark up the wooden surface of my desk.

Damn it.

I toss my pen away and clench the art flyer Miss Oliver has left behind. Taking aim to hurl it at my trashcan, I have a last second change of heart. The crumpled piece of paper gets straightened out as best as it can, then goes in my satchel.

Maybe…

4

NYSSA

DEMI GOD - KIMBRA FEATURING SAHTYRE

“Nyssa darling, lovely you’re here,”slurs Mrs. Driscoll. The recently widowed woman totters over in heels she’s unsteady on, clutching a wine glass that’s been refilled many times. She presses her warm cheek against mine in a kiss hello. “It means so much you could be here for the funeral.”

I return her slurred greeting with a polite smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll… and may I offer my sincerest condolences. Mr. Driscoll was a treasure to the community. He will be missed.”

…by no one.

“You are sooo sweet. I’m always telling Heather, why can’t she be more like you?”

“Heather’s great on her own,” I lie, my smile frozen on my face. “But I haven’t been able to find her.”

Mrs. Driscoll scoffs, the red wine sloshing precariously inside her glass. “Who knows with that girl? She could be off screwing the help for all I know.”

“I’m sure I’ll find her,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “She’s probably speaking to some of the other guests.”

“Mhm, I’m sure. Don’t forget, dinner is at five.” The widowed matriarch looks wholly unconvinced as she gives me her best bleary-eyed, tipsy smile and then sashays away.

I watch her go, amazed by how the lush can make her wine glass as fashionable as the designer black dress she wears.

Others have noticed she’s had a few too many, though no one dares say anything. They’re here for the social cred they’ll earn by being invited to such a private family affair bytheHolly Driscoll.

Thanks to her husband’s death, she’s now the wealthiest person in the community. Which means it’s social suicide to admit she may have a drinking problem.

Not that it’s anything new. Mom’s told me all about how Holly Driscoll—maiden name Bunton—was big on the party scene during her Castlebury University days.

The degree was just for show. Holly partied while students like my parents worked hard, and when she graduated, she went on to marry a man a few decades her senior in Kane Driscoll.

I’ve always preferred older men myself, butusuallymen who aren’t knocking on death’s door.

“Babe, there you are,” Samson says. He appears at my side, planting a wet kiss on my cheek. “You’re like a ninja sometimes.”

“A ninja?” I raise a brow, thrown by the comparison.

“Yeah. Appearing and disappearing. You were beside me at the funeral. Then I looked over and you were gone.”

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