Page 24 of Wanted You More

I set the smoothies in front of him on the counter, along with two neon green straws. My eyes widen when I see him put another fifty-dollar bill into the tip jar before grabbing the plastic cups.

He’s about to say something when the door opens and Benjamin Kingsley walks in. His presence instantly takes over the room as he stares directly at the man holding the smoothies.

“I thought that was your car,” Ben tells the man as he walks in with that slight limp he gets when his hip is acting up. Elizabeth told me it was an old injury that he didn’t want to get surgery to fix.

The man straightens at the firmness in Ben’s tone. “I was just picking up something after work. Hardly a crime.”

Confusion has my brows furrowing at his odd choice of words.

But not as much as when Noah’s dad replies, “Interesting that it brought you to Cherry Cove. A little out of your way, don’t you think?”

I feel like I should say something, but I choose to remain silent as the men face off.

The stranger lifts his smoothies. “I was just leaving.” He turns to me with a friendly smile that looks a little calculated. “Thank you for the recommendation, Austen.”

It takes me a few seconds after murmuring, “you’re welcome,” to realize I never told him my name. My nametag is barely legible because it’s chipped and smudged, so I doubt he was able to read it easily. But before I can question him, he walks past Ben and out the door with a nod in the former officer’s direction.

The eldest Kingsley turns toward me and asks, “Was he bothering you?”

I shake my head. “No. Who was he?”

He gives me a disappointed look. “That’s the man whose secretary has been calling your father about setting up time to talk. Honestly, Austen.”

“Thatwas the senator?”

“The senator-elect,” he confirms with a shake of his head. “How have you not seen his face? It’s on signs everywhere. There’s a smear campaign against his policies from his opposing candidate running on TV.”

As if I pay attention to those.He wouldn’t like it if I were honest about tuning out most political things when I see them. I know it’s not smart, but it’s safer for my sanity.

“All he wanted was a smoothie,” I tell him lamely, eyes moving toward the tip jar. Something tells me that was supposed to be a motive toward whatever he probably would have said had Ben not come in. “I’ll be better about knowing who’s around.”

I’m typically better at keeping an eye out for my surroundings. My gut rarely leads me in the wrong direction. When something is off, I always feel the butterflies flutter in my stomach, raising red alerts. It’s whether or not I listen to them in the long run that gets me.

He harrumphs. “Good. You need it.”

Now he sounds like Noah. Trying to brush that off, I ask, “Did you want something while you’re here?”

He looks out the front window before shaking his head. “Another time. I promised the missus we’d go out to dinner tonight, just the two of us. Wouldn’t want to spoil it.”

I lean against the counter. “Tell her I said hi,” I offer. I was nervous she’d tell him about the pregnancy test, but she’s kept her word. Nobody has said a word about the incident like I know they would have if she’d broken her promise.

He pushes open the door and calls out, “If he comes back, let me or Noah know. You know our numbers.”

He doesn’t call me out on how little I’ve reached out, and I’m grateful. “I will. Have a good date night.”

When it’s just me again, I stare at the fifty in the jar and make a face at it. I have no intention of keeping bribe money like I’m positive that is.

Which means whoever works opening tomorrow is going to owe me big time when they see it there waiting for them.

Rolling my arm and wincing at the ache, I crack my neck and start cleaning up to distract myself from the strange man and the Kingsley clan.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dad gives mepermission to skip school after watching me go through the medicine cupboard for the heavy pain medication that I rarely use. I’m grateful that I have a high pain tolerance, but that doesn’t mean there are days when the shooting pains in my arm don’t make it hard to function. I’d never admit to Wolfe or our dad how often I lie in bed crying because of how badly I hurt.

It’s why I curl up in my room, tucked under a mound of warm blankets, and ignore the texts from Marybelle asking where I am. The days when I feel the worst are when I want my mother the most, and I’m always reminded that the reason I feel this way is the same one as why she’s gone.

Whenever I was sick, she’d make room in her bed for me to snuggle in beside her, where she’d rub my back and play with my hair until I fell asleep. She’d make me my favorite homemade tomato soup with some grilled cheese to dip it in, put on my favorite feel-good movie, and heal me with her presence and warmth alone.

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