Page 3 of Some Like It Fox

We stare at each other, him still holding the unlit candle, me clutching my bag strap like it’s a weapon.

Who is this guy? He doesn’t ask why I’ve appeared on his doorstep in the middle of the storm of the century, like the ghost of Christmas past.

What if he’s a serial killer? What if he broke in and the Petersons are tied up in the basement? My fingers are gripping my bag so hard my fingers ache. I have pepper spray. Is it in the main pouch or the side pocket?

I swallow and shift on my feet, my gaze darting to the door behind him. “Um. Are you related to the Petersons? This is their house, right? Do they still live here? Are they around somewhere?” My heart pounds in my ears, my palms sweaty in my gloves. The fireplace illuminates the room, and I absorb the details in flashes, taking in a beige couch, a dark wood coffee table, and Tiffany lamps on the end tables.

“Moira is my aunt. This is their house. They still live here, but they’re out of town for the holidays.”

The words break through the looming panic, bringing with them a fuzzy piece of knowledge.

That’s right. They had a nephew who moved in with them during high school.

Wow. The recovered memory bursts over the surface of my mind, sending chills up my spine. How had I forgotten? I reach for his name in my mind, but it escapes me.

He moved to Whitby in the middle of our junior year. The same year everything changed. I went from honors student to barely managing to squeak through my senior year, aided by teachers with pitying eyes.

High school ceases to be important when your little sister dies.

The grip on my bag relaxes an inch. I know him. He’s not a murderer. Then it comes rushing back to me.

“Wait.” My mouth pops open. “Atticus?”

His eyes widen. “You remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Some, anyway. He was always quiet, always off to the side, like a shadow in the corners of my already dim memories.

The Atticus of my youth looks nothing like the rugged Adonis standing in front of me. He was tall when we were in high school, but he was so gangly then. His eyes are the same, warm brown with caramel highlights. His hair was longer and eternally draped over his face, like he was trying to hide himself from the world. It’s shorter now, but still long enough for the disheveled strands to tickle his neck.

“I’m Taylor Fox,” I say automatically, still weaving through forgotten recollections from high school. Something shimmers in the back of my mind, an image flashing to the forefront. Atticus’s hands on a steering wheel while afternoon sunshine pours through the windows, warming the cab of a truck.What is that?

“I know.” He sets the candle on a table by the door, then opens a drawer, fumbling inside. He pulls out a flashlight, clicks it on, and hands it to me. Then he uses a lighter to relight his candle, before putting it back in the drawer.

I unlatch my fingers from my bag strap, happy for the heavy weight of the flashlight in my hand.

“You can put your things down wherever you like.” He motions to the chair on my left.

After a second’s hesitation, I put my bag down and then shrug out of my coat.

He takes it from me, draping it over the back of the chair.

My stomach growls, loud enough to fill the quiet space and cover the crackle of the fireplace.

He frowns.

I wince, my face heating. “Sorry.”

Without a word, he stalks past me, a whiff of fresh soap mixed with a trace of cedar cologne breezing by. He smells good. Clean. I probably smell like stomped ass since I’ve been driving stressed for hours. At least I showered this morning.

I lift the flashlight and follow, the beam tracing over his gray Henley. The shirt is just tight enough to highlight the broadness of his back. The light trails down to his tapered waist, illuminating the jeans hugging his ass.

Wowza.

Awareness rushes through me, and I force the flashlight up.

Do not ogle Atticus.

I should be too exhausted to be turned on. I’ve barely slept over the past week of traveling, prior to which I was at the Beale Street Music Festival in Tennessee.

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