Page 59 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

“First of all, I told you not to call me Cupcake. Second of all, since when do you care about the election? I didn’t think you were planning on staying.”

“Maybe I like the job.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on, Davis. Either you’re staying at mine, or I’m staying at yours. And I’d way rather sleep in my own bed. But if we have to share yours ...”

“In your dreams, Flint.”

“My dreams are none of your business, sweetheart,” he answered, eyes alight, and Daphne’s cheeks flamed.

She should have pushed him more when they’d left the medical center. Should have insisted that he leave her alone.

But as she gathered her things, Daphne realized that she didn’t want to be alone. And more than that, she wanted to be withhim. Yes, he infuriated her. He was still the arrogant, pushy jerk she’d known almost twenty years earlier, but the more time she spent with him, the less she hated him. She was playing with fire.

After spending so many years trying to do the right thing, it felt good to take a risk.

Daphne stood up, propped her crutches under her arms, and swung her way to the door. The sheriff held it open for her, flicking off the lights behind her. His hand drifted over her lower back as she wobbled over an uneven piece of ground. And when they descended the stepsoutside the building, the heat of his hand spilled over her lower back, sinking down lower in her gut.

If she was flushed when he opened the door to his truck for her and helped her in, it was only because of the exertion of using the crutches. Nothing else.

They drove to Flint’s house, and as he parked in the driveway outside the small home, Daphne wondered what ties he still had to Fernley. The house wasn’t a rental; she could tell by how easily he moved through it. It was an older home in need of a fresh lick of paint, surrounded by newer, larger houses on all sides.

“Where did you find this house?” she asked as he cut the engine.

Flint glanced at her, then at the house. It had off-white siding and brown trim. The rain was slicking the shingled roof, and it looked like the gutters were in need of a clean. “This is where I grew up,” he said.

Daphne started. “What? Really?”

“My dad owned it and passed it on to me. I lived in it for a year or so after high school, before I moved away. By then, my mom had married her third husband, so I was on my own. Not that that was different from what I was used to,” he added, almost like an afterthought. Giving her a tight smile, Flint slipped out of the truck and jogged around to open her door.

The rain was misting, but it felt like it’d get heavier before the evening was through. It had been raining off and on all day, with a few bouts of torrential downpour between clearer spells. As Daphne made her way up the path, one of her crutches slipped, and she teetered on her single healthy leg until Flint’s hand gripped her elbow.

“This is why stairs are a bad idea,” he growled.

Daphne tucked her chin in her chest to hide her smile. It had been a long time since someone had actually worried about her. She’d always been the one to take care of everything. The responsible one who managed schedules and kept on top of life’s duties. Having someone at her back felt better than she’d expected.

Once inside, they stripped off their jackets and took off their shoes, and Daphne used a towel to wipe down her crutches. She made it to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Flint told her. “We’ll figure out dinner after?”

“Sure.”

He nodded and disappeared down the hall. A door opened, and a couple of minutes later, the shower turned on. Daphne looked at the pillows on her bed, knowing that if she laid her head on top of them, lifting it up again would be almost impossible. She heaved herself to her feet, leaving her crutches in the bedroom, and hopped toward the kitchen.

On the way, she passed a door. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the bathroom door was still closed, she pushed it open to peek inside. Yes, she was snooping. But that seemed like a fair cost after being strong-armed into staying here by the island’s sheriff.

A third bedroom lay beyond the door, filled with boxes of stuff. A junk room. She could see old clothes spilling from the tops of a few boxes, a clear plastic container filled with ancient electronics, and various old appliances and miscellaneous decor items stacked against every wall.

It was odd, since the rest of the house was militantly clean. Flint folded the throw blanket on the couch after every use, laying it over the arm of the sofa with its corners perfectly aligned. His kitchen was old but sparkling. The guest bedding had been perfectly pressed, with not a speck of dust in sight. Even the old venetian blinds had been wiped clean recently. His truck gleamed, and not just because of the constant rain.

But he had a junk room.

As Daphne made her way to the kitchen, she wondered about it. Was it a dirty secret? A room where he’d shoved all his past mistakes? She opened a couple of upper cabinets, looking for a glass. After finding one on the third try, she leaned against the sink and filled it. Herdrink was halfway to her lips when she realized what that junk room really was.

It was his parents’ stuff. It had to be. Maybe it was mostly his mother’s, since he’d mentioned she was a pack rat. Was it possible she’d used this house as storage while Flint was away?

Heart thumping, Daphne turned to survey the kitchen cabinets. Did that mean Grandma Mabel’s pot could behere? If that old pot in the corner cabinet of Eileen Yarrow’s kitchen wasn’tthepot, the only other place it could be was in this kitchen.

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