Page 133 of Imogen

“Oh God,” Charlotte whispers, her flesh even paler. “I’m so sorry, Hope. I’ll hand myself in.”

“What?” Drew asks.

Hope clears her throat. “It was a misunderstanding. I was returning the dog.”

“Returning it?” he questions.

“Because I stole him,” Charlotte rasps.

“Meaning you set him free,” Drew replies. “You didn’t steal him.”

“What? How did you know?” Hope asks.

“Because Charlotte wouldn’t steal a dog from a loving home,” he responds before turning to Charlotte. “What happened?”

“They had him tied up in the garden and he was always whining with his tail tucked up.”

“So the police should have given you a reward,” I declare, and the others nod with a grunt.

“We’ll make sure they’re corrected,” Landon promises.

“Thank you,” she breathes out, relaxing.

“Food,” Maddox blurts out, sniffing the air. When I don’t see anyone bringing anything out, I think he might be mistaken, but then three waiters walk out with bags of food.

I turn to Ben whilst the others are distracted. “You having fun?”

“Aside from my life being at risk, yes. I’m glad I got to tag along.”

“I’m glad you’re here too,” I tell him.

“You can show me how much later,” he orders, his pupils dilating.

I kiss his cold lips, smirking. “With pleasure.”

As the food gets handed out, I can’t help but get butterflies in my stomach. Did he mean what he said earlier about telling my dad? As much of a relief as it is to no longer keep this a secret, I’m nervous about what the outcome will be.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Imogen

When Sabrina suggested climbing the bluff, I thought it would be the most romantic time ever. I saw myself walking up with ease and confidence. Instead, my T-shirt under my coat is soaked with sweat, I’ve been unable to walk in a straight line since the first ten minutes into it, and I’m pretty sure I need an oxygen mask.

“Do you want to take a rest?” Ben questions again, unable to hide his concern.

“No,” I wheeze. “No. I can do this. I can!”

“Imogen, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m good, really,” I choke out. “The mountain is just taller than I realised.”

“It’s not a mountain.”

I stop to shoot daggers at his reply before continuing on. “It’s a mountain. We’ve been walking around this hill for hours now, when that sign said an hour walk to the top. That sign is false advertisement. We’re not getting any closer. It’s been so long, I’m beginning to worry we should have brought a tent.”

“Love, it’s been an hour, not hours,” he replies with a smile. “And we aren’t at the top because you refuse to take a break. You’ve been moving slower and slower with every minute that passes.”

“Your clock is wrong,” I argue.

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