Page 19 of True Fate

He’d sworn to throw the box away a dozen times, but he never could.

Unable to wait another second, he ripped into the envelope, a photograph and postcard tumbling onto his desk. He snatched up the photo, staring at the hopelessly young couple.God, the way he’d once dressed—like some wannabe rebel headed for a biker convention or, worse, jail.

And Lainey… she’d been radiant, her blond hair cascading past her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the sun and—he remembered with perfect clarity—the kiss he’d stolen moments before his cousin Campbell snapped the shot.

He flipped the picture over, but there was no inscription. Not that he needed one. He remembered everything about that sweltering, ardent summer.

He picked up the postcard and muffled a laugh behind his hand. Where in the hell had she found one of Carnegie Hall emblazoned withPractice Makes Perfect!?

How he would love to practice with Lainey Prescott, right thisminute.

He sank into his chair, his smile dissolving. His gaze drifted to the stormy night as his heart clenched.What are you trying to prove, Just? She didn’t set out to hurt you. You were both kids—stupid kids, just trying to survive broken childhoods. Trust your gut.

It had been telling him the same thing since the moment he first saw her.

Yes. He drained his drink.It had.

* * *

LAINEY

This place needs a lot of love,Lainey thought, dipping her brush into the paint can. Hard work—and the sharp bite of turpentine—had driven out most of the bad memories, along with the lingering scent of decay. In the three weeks since Justin left for New York, she’d worked like a demon on her father’s house, nearly finishing everything she could tackle on her own.

An architect would be invaluable for the next round of renovations, if she could find one willing to take on a fledgling project like hers. The house had once been on the wrong side of the tracks, but now, amazingly, sat in the hip part of town.

But there were no guarantees. And definitely no promises. The only architect she knew, the guy she’d loved since forever, hadn’t called.

So, she’d started building a life in a neighborhood with a small but thriving creative community. With help from the Historical Society, she’d applied for a tax abatement to help cover renovation costs over the next few years. She was also working on her psychologist licensure application for South Carolina. Fontana had a friend with a vacant office on Main Street, and tomorrow, Lainey was scheduled to take a look.

She dabbed at a thin trail of paint snaking down the wall, wondering how she’d make it until next week, when the one-month waiting period she hadn’t exactly agreed to would finally be over.

What if Justin didn’t show? Or worse, what if he did—only to tell her he was moving on without her? She’d avoided True Art. Stepping into a space filled with his paintings—the bold splashes of color born from his mind and soul—was more than she could handle right now.

The only place she’d be weaker was in his bed.

“This house has good bones.”

Lainey spun so fast, paint spattered across her already stained jeans. She pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to throw herself into Justin’s arms as he moved through the room, his gaze sweeping from ceiling to floor. He stopped at the window, trailing a finger along a cracked pane with a touch that sent a warm rush through her.

“It’s going to be a lot of work,” she said at last, relieved her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

“Sure, but it’s fun to restore.” Dark hair brushed the back of his collar as he turned to face her. Sunlight caught the lenses of his aviators, scattering prisms across her. In his black suit and tie, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a fashion shoot.

She opened her mouth, thoughts scrambling, but all that came out was a shaky breath. A sudden jolt of pleasure shot through her as he stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers—steady, intense. Only the flex of his hands at his sides betrayed his nerves.

“You’re back early,” she whispered.

He smiled, the dimple she’d missed so much flaring to life. “Actually, sweetheart, I’m late.”

Crouching in front of her, he took the brush from her hand and tapped it against the paint can. “Thirteen years late,” he added, sliding his sunglasses to the top of his head so she could see his gorgeous, golden eyes.

She swallowed, tears burning behind her own. “Thirteen years?”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small silver box. “I bought this for you the week before we were set to leave for college. It seems meager now, but then…” He placed it in her hand with the care he might give a fragile vase.

She wrapped her fingers around it, her gaze never leaving his.

The skin around his mouth crinkled as his smile deepened, then he laughed. “Open it, will you? The suspense is killing me.”

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