Page 5 of True Fate

“Red, okay? The distributor said the cab’s a good one.”

“Lovely, thank you.” She glanced around the gallery, taking in the contemporary track lighting, the walls lined with paintings and photographs. People moved in a calm flow, carried along by a gentle, cultural current. The space was well-designed—soothing yet vibrant.

It suited the urbane man standing beside her perfectly.

A man she no longer knew.

“This is a very chic spot for Promise. Actually, I’m surprised at some of the changes. Imagine, a wine store on Main Street.” Lainey wasn’t sure whether to laugh or ache at how much had changed, and how easily time had gotten away from her.

Justin hesitated, like he wasn’t sure whether to break the silence or delight in it. “I guess it’s been a while since you were here. In town for the festival?”

“No, just some business with my father’s place. I’ve been renting it out, but I’ve thought about selling. It needs a lot of work—too much, honestly.” She drew a tight breath, the past weighing heavily. Before the breakup and the mess at work, Promise hadn’t crossed her mind. Now, with her career spiraling, she had no idea where her life was headed.

Moving into her father’s rundown house was the definition of rock bottom.

He studied her for a beat, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “That side of town’s been getting more popular, though. Young couples moving back after college are snapping up those cottages. Have you seen the money they’re pouring into them?”

She raised an eyebrow, her tone bone-dry. “The wrong side of the tracks is now the right. I didn’t think I’d live to see Harrow Creek become a thing.”

Justin smiled then—a slow, sincere response that softened his features and brought back the dimple she hadn’t remembered until now.

For the first time since she’d walked into the gallery, he looked exactly like the boy she’d loved.

Before Lainey could say something she’d regret, the lights dimmed, casting shadows across the floor and catching the sharp line of his neck and jaw. “Mood lighting,” she murmured, for lack of anything more hazardous.

“Brent—the guy chatting up your friend at the bar—thinks ambiance sells art. He picks the lighting, I pick the music.” Justin nodded toward the speaker tucked discreetly into the corner. “Billie Holiday. That’s my contribution.”

“What do you think sells art, Just?” The nickname slipped out, one she’d used in private, mostly when they were tangled around each other in the backseat of his Volkswagen Rabbit. She remembered jazz reverberating through her until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it.

From the pleasure ofhim.

The way his fingers had traced the shape of her body, the way he’d made her feel like the only person in his world. It had been a lifetime ago, but those moments lingered, the piercing notes of a song you couldn’t forget.

His smile collapsed as a chill rolled between them, the amber glow of the gallery flickering in the background. “Emotion sells, Lainey. Anger, love, lust, disgust, greed. Most people are terrified to express those things, let alonefeelthem. That’s why they buy someone else’s torment to hang on their walls.”

Looking down, he stared intently into his wine, closing her off from those gorgeous, expressive eyes of his. Tucking his emotions in a place where old wounds remained. “Although, art—like life—is a hard sell.”

He was making it clear he hadn’t forgiven her, and never would. Which meant she had nothing to lose by being honest. “I’m a psychologist, so emotions are my world. My professional world, anyway.” She paused, meeting his gaze, the vulnerability lingering there, after all this time, almost too much to bear. “Although I have just as much trouble corralling my own.”

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I’ll be damned.”

A kick of temper flared in Lainey’s chest. That, too, was something he’d always been able to rouse in her. It hadn’tallbeen passion and laughter. “I’m not sure what’s funny.”

He drank like he had all the time in the world, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “I’m sure you don’t.”

Someone moved through the crowd and bumped her. Justin’s arm shot out as she stumbled, circling her waist, anchoring her against his chest. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a second, Lainey didn’t move.

Following instinct, she grasped his wrist, slipping her fingers beneath the crisp cuff of his shirt. His pulse pounded wildly beneath her touch. His exhale ghosted her cheek, a sweet rush of lime from his drink. One more inch, and she could close the distance—fuse her lips to his and never let go.

The air surrounding them thickened. The lights, the music, the hum of voices faded, leaving only a throbbing heat, familiar and reckless.

But then the moment cracked, clarity rising sharp and cold through the haze.

This wasn’t love. This was longing.

This wasneed.

And acting on it would undo her.

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