Page 30 of Things Left Unsaid

“But I’m supposed to meet my friend!”

That was the only reason I agreed to get in the truck with him—he was the fastest mode of transportation off the Bar 9 afterGrand-mèredeclared I couldn’t leave without discussing the wedding.

Colt, in full-on savior mode, swept me into his truck and took me away.

Swear to God, if I don’t discuss what’s going on with Tee soon, I’ll lose my cool for real. I’ve already had to deal with one bout of hypoglycemia at the house. In front of him no less.

I need my BFF.

Stat.

“I know you are,” he soothes. “And I won’t keep you long. I wanted to get to know you better before you return to New York to close things up.”

“Close things up?” I repeat blankly.

Get to know me better?

“You have to come back to Pigeon Creek, Zee. Whether we live at the Bar 9 or the Seven Cs, we have to minimize the gossip.

“The fact that a McAllister is marrying a Korhonen is going to trigger enough of a shitstorm but?—”

“We don’t have to live together!” I blurt out.

His brow furrows. For the first time, he looks angry and that’s aimed at me. “I agreed we could divorce after you gave me a child, but if you think I’m going to let that kid be raised in this town and have them be gossiped about or have them trip over the bullshit that’s associated with being our kidas well ashaving to deal with rumors over how our marriage worked—you’re insane.”

Weakly, I slump in the passenger seat.

I don’t argue with him because I know he’s right.

Not even death will stop the gossip in Pigeon Creek—it goes on hiatus.

Which is why I love New York City.

Anonymity FTW.

Because this is Rumorville, population 2402.

Every action comes with a consequence that will be held against you for the rest of your life.

While the prospect of motherhood terrifies the living crap out of me, he’s right to be so proactive.

Right to be concerned about protectingourchild.

God help me because as unhinged as this is, I’m grateful that he’s thinking ahead.

“I can see you agree and know I’m right,” he states, tone more wooden than at any other point of our conversation since we first met today.

“Yeah,” is all I’m capable of mumbling. That’s when I remember what he said. “You’d live at the Bar 9?”

“We have more space at the Seven Cs, but if it makes you feel better being at home?—”

“No.” I ignore how I can scent his aftershave—pine and a soft musk. It’s oddly comforting because it’s the same. My nose remembers what I’d forgotten—the first time he’d shaved. These flashes of memory make me feel like I’m waking up after contracting amnesia. “I-I can’t live withGrand-mèreso I’d prefer to move in with you.” Definitely time for a change of subject. “God, this place’s like a buried time capsule,” I mutter, taking in the arterial street of the town.

“Some things change.”

“Like what?”

“The Korhonens aren’t the only ones keeping it going.”

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