Page 15 of Just Can't Fall for the Enemy

“So he can pay for your plane tickets to visit me, of course. You could do with a little beach time these days.”

I felt my smile fade. “Thanks, but . . . I’m not boarding an airplane anytime soon.”

“Of course. Silly me, forgetting something as important as that.” She paused. “Well, we’ll discuss a road trip, then. I bet Carmen would come with you if you bribe her with enough Mexican food.”

Mexican food and two giggly women in the car on a two-day drive . . . now thatwouldbe an adventure to remember. My smile returned just slightly. But Grammy didn’t get it. The outside world only held pain and danger. Huckleberry Creek was my haven, my fortress.

My parents resisted my pleas to travel the world for a reason. Turns out they were right all along.

“I’m excited to see you,” I finally said, my voice tight, closing my eyes to shut out the image of Grammy’s plane plummeting to the ground in a raging inferno.

“You too, baby girl. Don’t worry. We’ll get through this anniversary together.”

Eight

The next morning,I stood in front of a small house with a hand-painted sign that read “Huckleberry Creek Museum and Library.”

“A museum,” I said, feigning enthusiasm. “Great.” I didn’t love museums, and all my subscribers knew it. Anybody could go to a museum to learn about a place’s history. If I meant to snag a contract with Guy, my episode would have to be different and unique. Fresh. Not a listing of dates and their accompanying black-and-white photos.

“This is the oldest house in Huckleberry Creek,” Sophie said cheerfully. “I know how much you love history.”

I’d never once said I liked history in my videos, but I’d chosen this woman to show me around. Time to trust her. “I’ve never seen a town museum that doubles as its library. How does that work—books interspersed with relics and old hunting rifles?”

There was a playful glint in her eye, one I was coming to know well. “You’ll see” was all she said.

Turns out the house only had two rooms—what had obviously been the kitchen and living area and then a small bedroom that seemed to have been added later. There was no greeter, nobody at a desk demanding admission, just a glass jar with DONATIONS written on a label with a marker. Beneath it was a paper that said, “All books due within one month of checkout. No exceptions! Return one before you borrow another.” Lines and dates with names scribbled next to book titles covered the rest of the page.

At least this town had its priorities straight, filling the bigger room with books. It held half a dozen metal shelves that felt far too modern for this space and contrasted the old spines in an intriguing way. It smelled like . . . old books. Old something.

Maybe justold.

I kind of loved it.

“The museum part is back here,” Sophie said, heading for the addition, where I could now see a dozen pictures on the wall with glass cases beneath. But what grabbed my attention wasn’t the museum portion—a book rested on the empty table in the middle of this room, propped up so it would be seen from the door. Several more copies of the same book sat stacked next to it, lined up neatly.

DEFENDING THE SMALL TOWN,the title read.

“By Trevor Goodman,” I read. “A relative of yours?”

Sophie slowed, caught my line of sight, and flushed a brighter red than I’d ever seen. Clearly she hadn’t meant for me to see this. “My father.”

“May I?” I asked.

She nodded.

Her eyes followed my hands closely as I picked it up. Surely the town was proud of its author resident or they wouldn’t have displayed it here like a trophy. I opened the pages and scanned to a section entitled “The People: Why They’re Different.”

“Cities like to make fun of small-town residents,” I read aloud. “They consider them less educated, less wealthy or even downright poor, more easily entertained and manipulated, and generally rougher around the edges. You rarely see a politician or movie star rise from a small town. Why is that? Because they aren’t worthy of international recognition or prominence? Not so. I submit they’re worthier than anyone and among the most interesting people on the planet—and I would know.”

I looked up to find Sophie staring at the book with a stricken expression.

I closed it and set it down, taking a few steps toward her before I remembered it wouldn’t be appropriate to hug her. She was here in a professional capacity and seemed to want me to remember it. “I forgot you don’t like discussing your parents. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” If anything, her tone was angry, but not at me. More . . . bitter. “Come on, I wanted to show you what Huckleberry Creek looked like in its first decade. There’s an early photo over here.”

As interesting as that sounded—and it really did, strangely—it wasn’t the mystery of Huckleberry Creek I wanted to unravel right now.

It was the mystery of Sophie.

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