Page 107 of One Last Chance

His dad and Ox had taken seats at a picnic table in the beer garden, so Flynn had edged over to the music festival, buying popcorn from a popcorn cart.

“Hungry?”

“It’s a prop. Stand right there.”

So now he stood, eating popcorn, his back to the beer tent, watching the band, acting like nope, nothing to see here.

“This is a stakeout? It feels like stalking. Except with a lot of food.”

“Mm-Mmmhmm,” she said as she held a piece of popcorn, her body angled toward the band, her gaze on Ox in the nearby beer tent. “Who’s he sitting with?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Don’t turn around!”

“You asked me who he was with. What—I can’t see behind me.”

“Fine.” She tossed the popcorn into the trash, then grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a cleared area where a few people were dancing. Put her arms around his neck. “Now you can look.”

He wanted to look nowhere but at her, the feel of her body warm against him stirring up everything he’d been trying to tamp down over the past two days.

Frankly, her hug—the desperate nature of it—had shaken him to his core. Mostly because he’d needed it. More than he wanted to admit, even hours later.

He was falling for this girl, and . . . despite his teasing about her staying, having a little faith, suddenly it felt way too . . . well, maybe the thought of her walking away had him by the throat, just a little.

So maybe he wasn’t exactly teasing.

In fact, he wanted nothing more than to put his arms around her, pull her tight, twirl her right off this swath of dirt, maybe over to the wan shadows between the beer tent and the ranger’s office, and resume their conversation.

Searching, I guess. Searching for you, Flynn.

Oh boy.Instead, he unlatched her arms, moved her hand onto his shoulder, his around her waist, so he could move her around.

“You know how to two-step?”

“Not even a little.”

“Okay.” He swayed with her, then turned her and peered into the tent. “Okay, sitting with my dad are Ox Remington, Barry Kingston—you know him?—”

“The other guy?”

“That’s Wilson Bowie.”

“That’s right. I knew I’d see him before.” She sighed.

He looked down at her. “What?”

“Maybe this all just . . . maybe I need to accept the fact that Kennedy is gone and stop seeing clues where there aren’t any.”

“What clue did you see?”

“None, just that wolf tattoo on Ox’s arm. And Wilson Bowie, a seasonal fisherman, and then there’s Peyton’s dad, who shows up every summer but isn’t a hunter. And if you want to go wild, Sully, who tromps around in the woods and knew my sister and maybe isn’t telling us the truth. And . . . I don’t know, Axel. I’m so far out of my element here . . .”

She looked up at him. “And there’s you.”

“I’m a suspect?”

She smiled. “No. But you are . . . I . . .” She pushed away from him and walked away from the dance floor, down the street, and—w—here was she going?

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