Page 7 of True Fate

The fact that he was still angry wasn’t lost on her. And honestly, she couldn’t blame him. Maybe it was best to leave it alone. Less than forty-eight hours to try and undo thirteen years of hurt was like a ticking time bomb in a Bond film—destined to go off no matter what she did.

Lainey sighed, pushing her damp bangs from her forehead.Buck up, Prescott.He was probably sleeping in with the brunette. Although, a quick jog past his house wouldn’t hurt. He didn’townthe entire town. It was a bit like calling and hanging up in the old days. Besides, she was dying to see what he’d done with the Myer cottage, the one with latticework and gray shingles, if she had the right place in mind.

Of course, her plan went straight to hell in a handbasket when she reached the house—yep, the right one—and there he sat on the front steps, sketch pad in hand, a coffee mug resting at his hip.

Lainey halted at the picket fence surrounding the neat front yard, resting her elbow on the wooden finial.Damn, he was so sexy it almost hurt to look. A Yankees hat sitting at a crooked tilt on his head, dark strands poking out on either side. His jaw dusted with stubble, thicker than the night before. No shave yet. A long-sleeve Dartmouth T-shirt and faded jeans with a ragged tear in the knee covering his long, lean body.

She smiled as he wiggled his bare toes, muttering something to himself before sending charcoal across the pad in a wide arc. His shoulders were broader than they’d seemed in his suit jacket, his chest muscles flexing as he sketched. Gone was the lanky boy who’d lost more fights than he’d won.

“Coming in or what?”

Her fingers tightened on the slat. Annoyance tinted his tone, but it was muted. “Do you want me to?”

Justin didn’t lift his head, but a dark brow slid beneath the shadow of his cap, a challenge she couldn’t resist.

With a laugh at her foolishness, she opened the gate and started down the pebbled path. She’d chosen to do this in ratty running shorts and a well-worn Atlanta Braves sweatshirt.Impressive, Lainey.Still, too late now. “If that’s coffee in your mug, and you’re willing to share, you’ll officially be my new best friend. Although I know you don’t need any, or so you said.”

He tilted his head, his face partly obscured by the shadow of his cap. “Actually, it’s a cappuccino. And who doesn’t need friends?” he added in a low whisper.

“Are you kidding?” She dropped to the step and peered into his mug. “You’re not kidding.”

His lips curved and that lone, tempting dimple flared to life. “I would never joke about caffeine in a town that’s severely lacking. Would be pretty cruel.” He jacked his thumb over his shoulder. “My machine is there, waiting for another order.”

“I’m in,” she said, following him inside and doing her best—really—to keep her eyes off his ass, clad in denim so worn it was almost white. A hole above his back pocket revealed skin…andnothingbut skin.

Jesus, she thought, he’s going commando.

Forcing her mind from places it didn’t need to go, she glanced around as they moved through his den and into the kitchen. Masculine hues of dark brown and maroon, framed photographs, and paintings like those she’d seen in his gallery. “The photographs are Campbell’s?”

Justin dropped his sketchpad on the kitchen table and moved with swift efficiency, going through the motions of cappuccino creation. “You’ve heard of his work?” he asked, his voice rising over the gentle roar of the coffee grinder.

Lainey pulled out a chair and collapsed into it, nearly moaning as the bitter aroma of espresso hit her. “Sure, who hasn’t?” Campbell, Justin’s cousin, was one of the most renowned photographers in the country. Two years older, his father an even bigger nightmare than Justin’s, he’d left town the second he could, like the rest of the Trues. “I have one of his books. African landscapes, I think.”

“Part of my success with the gallery comes from having exclusive rights to some of his pieces.” Justin placed a steaming mug that readArchitects Do It Betterin front of her. “Barista, I’m not. But it’ll work in a pinch.”

She wrapped her hands around it with an exhalation of pleasure. Who wouldn’t love a guy who handled a steam wand like a pro? Feeling the heat, she glanced up to find Justin’s golden gaze focused intently on her, finally visible beneath his hat. “What?” she asked, licking her lips and dabbing them with her wrist. “Foam?”

Shaking his head, he sighed. “Nope, no foam.”

While he made another cappuccino, she circled his sketchpad around, only to find an outline of a woman she recognized staring back at her.

Lainey’s heart skipped as a flush swept her cheeks.

If he was drawing her, he was thinking about her as much as she was thinking about him. Maybe. Possibly.

Quickly spinning the sketchpad around, she leaned back, her mind reeling. “So, you’re in New York most of the time?” she asked, watching his hips shift in faded denim, that tempting hole above the pocket daring her to remember just how impulsive she used to be.

Though there was a fine line between curiosity and doing something really stupid.

After a charged silence, he slid into the chair across from her, his slender fingers cradling his mug. She remembered those hands on her. “I just made junior partner at my firm,” he said, his words halting. “Only, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Last year, I did some pro bono work for a nonprofit in Charleston, and I think architectural restoration is the way I want to go. There’s plenty of that here, but…”

He shrugged, his head bent, the brim of his hat again hiding his expression. “It would be a big change. Career, life.”

Going on instinct and the recklessness that was a part of her, Lainey leaned over the table and snatched his cap off. His hair stuck out at wild angles, charmingly undone, still carrying a hint of curl at the ends. When he blinked in shock, she came to her senses with a murmured apology, her fingers curling into fists to stop herself from pulling him closer.

“You had to start it, didn’t you?” Grabbing her hand, he brought her wrist to his nose, drawing a deep breath. “You smell exactly the same, Lainey. Why is that? Loves Baby Soft, or is that my memory talking?”

She gave her hand a weak tug, but he held tight. “I didn’t start anything.”

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