Page 4 of When the Woods Go Silent

“Tonight’s a pre-season trial run,” he adds when I still don’t say anything.

“Cult following, then,” I observe, regaining more of my composure. He nods, still smiling softly. I feel strangely at ease around him, and it’s a welcome contrast to the stress of the past half hour. His eyes wander down the curves of my figure, and I feel the gaze like the heat of a palm sliding across my skin.

I find myself letting him look, welcoming the attention instead of getting the ick.

I’ve never been thin, and although I’ve learned to enjoy my thick thighs and the breasts that refuse to be contained by any button-up shirt, it’s a bit of a sore spot with men and me. They like to chase and catch, but they always seem to prefer to release me afterward. My dating strategy has evolved to get in and get what I want from a man, then leave him first, with plenty of time to protect my heart at all costs.

But I haven’t met anyone under fifty in Clearwater yet. I’m open to being caught by this one, even if it’s just for a night.

“I’m Rose,” I say, holding out my hand and ignoring the feminine urge to fix my messy hair. “My sister and I bought the bookstore recently. We’re revamping it before the season.”

I don’t know why I said sister. Ruby and I aren’t related. But something about this moment makes me want to claim her as more than a friend, to use our closeness as a sort of armor or shield.

I want this man to know that even though it might look like I’m all alone and frightened, I’m anything but.

His hand closes around mine and unfortunately, it’s just like in the damn love stories I devour. His skin is cool and electric,energy and anticipation surging straight to my center as he grips my hand firmly and tells me his name is Arlo.

I raise an eyebrow - it’s a name I haven’t heard before, and I wonder where he’s from. “So, what kind of food do you serve?” I ask instead.

He shrugs, letting go of my hand. I tuck mine into a pocket to keep it from doing anything inappropriate, and tilt my head up to better look him in the eyes. He’s lean, and lightly muscled. Playboy surfer, if I had to stereotype. Perfect for a summer fling.

“We like to switch it up, keep everyone guessing. But my favorite thing is always the dessert.”

Something in his voice gives the word a sensual double meaning, and I resist a little shimmy of my hips. Yes, I would very much like to be caught by Arlo for a night or two.

Before I can relax into flirting, though, the promised cop car rolls around the corner, heading toward the book shop. Lights flash, but the siren isn’t on, and they’re driving the speed limit. I swallow a snort. Good thing I wasn’t actually in any danger.

“So, that’s for me. I thought we had a break-in. Probably kids or something,” I rush out, already turning away as I gesture toward the police car. “But I’ll watch for your next pop-up,” I add over my shoulder.

“Or just stop by anytime. I’ll open the doors for a private tour, if it’s for a fellow local business owner,” Arlo offers with a playful smirk, his voice suddenly overpowered by a group of laughing young women spilling into the street from the restaurant.

I move out of their way quickly, and when I glance back from the corner, I can’t tell if he’s even still there.

The way my night has gone, I probably imagined him, too. I know I just need more sleep. My dreams have been way more vivid than usual, waking me up often throughout the night.

I hurry back to the bookshop, where the pair of officers seems to politely agree that it was my imagination as they patrol each room, searching for anything I’ve described.

“Sorry, ma’am, but I see nothing out of the ordinary,” one of them finally decides, and I can’t blame him.

Feeling grumpy and very out of sorts, I nod at the cop while his partner climbs back into their cruiser. They’ve checked the entire property, even our second-floor apartment above the bookstore. Nothing was damaged, nothing moved or missing, as far as I can tell in the mess of unpacked boxes.

I’ve shown them the camera feeds on my phone, and none of us saw anything except some books toppling over. Even the window where my blood had been smeared was somehow sparkling clean when I went to show them, and when I touched my wounded fingertips to it, I felt nothing but cool, solid glass.

“No need to apologize. I guess I’m just not used to the night sounds of the forest yet,” I offer, because I don’t want them to think I’m the crazy new lady in town.

“These woods do have a way about them. Old houses, too. They creak and settle. And of course, watch for animals. Newcomers often take a while to get used to... everything,” he says, nodding and hedging his answer. Something dark flashes in his eyes, and I want to ask more questions. Are there local ghost stories about the woods? Animal attacks?

But I can tell they’re ready to leave, and one thing’s for certain - I need sleep.

I lock up carefully once the police car drives away, triple-checking everything before I head upstairs to the living area that Ruby and I now share. She’d talked about this very bookshop for years, remembering it from summers when her mom came to Clearwater to get work. Finding out the retiring owner actually lived above the books had been the final piece in her “meant-to-be” puzzle.

“Look, Rose,” she’d said, smiling dreamily as she’d shown me the faded floral wallpaper and time-worn hardwood floors of the apartment above the shop. “We can finally live together like sisters.”

And that was really all she’d had to say to convince me to quit my boring city job and start fresh in a tourist town with her. We’d been pretending since we met as middle schoolers, wishing her single mom and my single dad would just get together already and make us official sisters.

Yawning, I strip off my tank top and jeans, then my bralette and panties, stretching the stress out of my naked body. Too late, I realize the curtains are still open, and I grab my robe to cover up. I never made that mistake as a city girl, but I decide to take it as a sign that I’m more comfortable here than I realize, and it’s only habit that’s keeping me on guard for the inevitable shoe to drop.

It’s part of an old pattern that I’m still working to break - imagining threats to this new happiness, afraid to believe it’s real.

---