Page 63 of Tempt Me

“I hate it.”

“That’s normal too.”

“I don’t want her to be with him,” I say. “They feel wrong together. I know I’m biased but…”

I trail off. But what? They shouldn’t be together because I didn’t like a look on Luke’s face or a party I know nothing about? The fact is, I don’t want her to be with anyone else, period. It’s not about Luke’s expressions or his clothing or whether his phone has service. I’m just desperately trying to find something that would give Isla a reason to leave him. To be with me.

And that’s not going to happen.

Aren’t I the one who’s leaving anyway?

But if she chose you, would you stay?

I don’t want to answer that.

There’s a long pause, then Noah changes the subject.

“How goes your investigation?”

“Oh, are you talking to me about that now?”

He seems to realize his mistake—I hear a quick intake of breath. “No,” he says.

“Come on. Let me look at the police files.”

“Nice try,” Noah says wryly. “You want me to lose my job?”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“No dice.”

“It was worth a shot.”

Noah chuckles. “Want to meet up at the Screw later this week? I can’t talk but I can listen. You can run your theories by me.”

“That sounds great,” I say.

We hang up and I feel a little better. I bet Noah will do more talking than he says—he’s already spilled some details anyway. It’s nice making plans to meet up with him again. It’s nice to have Alistair forcing a glass of wine on me on a sunny Sunday afternoon. It’s been fun working on the booths with Cody while Reggie fixes cars and plays oldies on his tiny radio.

It hasn’t been as awful being home as I feared.

I told Sebastian I wouldn’t be back until the end of the summer—it’s winter down there, so it’s the off season anyway. Of course, he told me to take all the time I needed and reminded me how important family is.

I head down to the kitchen to make myself an espresso, planning to head to the blue study to do more research. Noah got me newly invigorated, and I want to have something to show for myself when we talk. Just as I’m sipping my drink, Dad strides into the kitchen.

“What are you doing home?” I ask.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“Oh. Okay.”

We stand in silence for a few awkward moments.

“How’s the gir—how is Isla,” Dad says.

Working from homeandasking about Isla? As if he even cares. I’m instantly suspicious.

“Uh, she’s good,” I say. “Much better now. Fever broke.” I clear my throat and add, “Thanks for calling Dr. Wilkins.”

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