Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (13 page)

I already want a drink.
 

Of course, this is ridiculous. It's just after ten in the morning. But as I stir sugar into my mug, I ask Amelia if the rules on appropriate drinking times apply only to people who have jobs or children to look after. Places to drive to. I have none of those things. All I have is time, an entire day stretched out before me to figure out my next move.
 

She agrees I'm allowed an early drink considering the circumstance. The tan liquid of my coffee rises gently in the cup with the introduction of the new substance. Giving the concoction a quick stir, I take my first sip.

Before we hang up, Amelia invites me over to her place tonight. Says she purchased a man-shaped punching bag, with a crotch and everything. Beating the shit out of it apparently works wonders for carrying out hatred of all phallic shaped things.

A bit discouraged and crestfallen, I leave the laptop closed for the day and spend the afternoon looking through my sister's storage shed, which is full of boxes I left behind when I moved north for law school. Can't believe it's all still here, collecting dust. Old college stuff, rare pictures from our childhood, the bicycle she bought me when I was twelve. And a ton of other crap she insists on hoarding.
 

I'm looking for a specific picture I remember of the two of us to frame as a present. It was the summer before I turned ten. My mother was dating a surprisingly decent guy at the time, one who probably had no idea what he was getting into. He took us to the county fair, at the Del Mar fairgrounds. There's a picture of Lex and me on one of the rides. If memory serves me right, it's hilarious. Lex looks terrified, holding onto my hand for dear life, while I sit beside her, hair standing on ends but otherwise looking positively unimpressed with the ordeal.

After pouring over the collection of random trinkets in the boxes marked vaguely—probably by me—as
old stuff
and
more old stuff
and
the last of the old stuff
, I finally find the damn picture in a small photo album. There are a few other good ones in there from that summer. I take the whole thing and tuck it under my arm.

A glance at my watch tells me it's nearly eight in the evening. I'm supposed to leave for Amelia's soon and I'm still not dressed to go. As I turn back to the door of the shed, a box plopped atop a ledge catches my eye.

HS Stuff—Emily

High School stuff? I can't resist taking a peek inside. It's mostly empty, which surprises me. I find two textbooks I never returned, a plastic bag full of handwritten notes my friends and I used to pass back and forth between classes, a bunch of hair ribbons from when I was in the cheerleading squad, and my varsity cheerleading uniform. Under all of that, a black square of fabric takes me by surprise. I pull on it to reveal a man's suit jacket, staring at it for a beat before the memory comes over me. A memory rusted from time, of a cold night, a kind boy, and a warm, innocent gesture.

On the inside collar, written in black marker over the designer's tag are two words:
Lucas Grant
.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hands wrapped around the steering wheel, I tell myself I'm headed to Amelia's place. But the jacket on the seat beside me indicates my intentions of a detour.

It's quiet. The car radio is off for the very first time because my thoughts are loud enough tonight.
 

This is ridiculous. The diner's closed, I'm sure it is. The clock on my dashboard says it's nearly nine and the diner closes at eight thirty. But as I drive past it, I catch dimmed lighting coming from the inside.

A detour it is.
 

All the window blinds are shut and the sign on the door is turned to
closed,
but when I try the handle, the door gives inward and the bell sounds overhead like it always does. The place looks deserted at first, chairs pulled up over the tabletops.
 

Owen emerges from the back hall that leads to the restrooms. He's dressed in a gray button down shirt and dark jeans, holding a small can of paint. When he sees me, he freezes but doesn't immediately say anything.

I take my time walking up to him, the sounds of my heels clicking against the tile flooring echo around me as his eyes sweep over my figure as though unable to look anywhere else. I'm wearing a dress, like I usually am. Because dresses are the only clothes I can borrow from Lex and, also, they are comfortable as hell to throw on. This one is a tight sweater dress that comes about mid-thigh.
 

"Kitchen's closed, you know. Wifi's been turned off," Owen says, smiling a little, as though suspecting I'm here for something else.

Holding out my hands, I pull on the material in them to reveal the shape of the jacket. "This is yours, isn't it?"

The jacket is obviously too small for him, it would fit a much smaller frame. He starts to shake his head but, slowly, recognition clicks into place and his eyes move up to meet mine. "Where'd you get that?"

"Storage. My sister has all my old stuff here. It's yours, isn't it?"

He nods after a few seconds. The silence that follows tells me he's unsure where I'm going with this, why I'd come here to give it back to him after all these years.

"My junior year, prom night…I was sitting outside. It was cold and I was shivering. Someone came up beside me and asked me if I was okay. I didn't want to answer because my makeup was running and I didn't want anyone to see. He put this jacket on me and I barely got a chance to look up before my friends came out and he disappeared."

He waits, as if knowing I'm not finished.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he says. "It was me."

"Was that the night you and Jonathan fought?"

"It was."

"I remember you," I say.
 

"I'm glad I finally ring a bell."

The brief moment that follows drapes a peculiar sensation over me. Relief. And in his eyes? Satisfaction.

It's like we are finally hitting the nail on the head, even when neither of us knew there was a nail to hit.

He eyes my smirk and I know he's thinking about our kiss. I'm thinking about it too. The tension I typically see pulling his eyebrows together dissolves before my eyes, seeping instead into the air around us, making the space between our bodies feel impossibly far and recklessly close.
 

"Can I ask you a question?" He nods to the jacket. "Why'd you keep it?"
 

His question catches me off guard and I have to look away to gather my thoughts. "At first I thought I'd find this Lucas Grant and return the jacket in person. I didn't like owing someone a favor. People always wanted something in return for their favors. I asked around, there were a few Grants but no Lucas Grant going to our school at the time. Obviously I didn't make the connection to Lucas from the diner…."
 

Because I didn't even know he had a son
, I finish in my head.

"For the record, there were no strings attached."

 
"I knew that, somehow. That's why I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

We are standing closer than before, though I can't remember either one of us moving forward. His gaze trails downward in an 's' pattern, carving out the hollows of my body, the parts that swoop inward only to curve back out again. Then he says, "You look nice."

"Thanks." I lift up the jacket and slap it against Owen's chest. One of his hands rises to catch it, gripping part of my hand along with the material. I don't pull away, letting him hold it there for a beat before letting my hand drop back to my side.
 

As our sights hover unbroken, I wonder if we're playing a game. Daring the other to give into the force weighing on the space between us, pulling us inward.
 

A familiar voice pulls me out of my Owen-induced haze. "Oh. Sorry."

Landon is standing by the back entrance, his body half turned from us, unsure whether he wants to come in further or leave.

What the hell is the kid doing here?

"Are you ready to go?" Owen asks him.
 

I sidestep to stand beside Owen and I notice it for the first time. The resemblance between the two is undeniable: the straight eyebrows, the square chins, almond shaped hazel eyes, always slightly narrowed.
 

 
I blurt out, "Wait, are you two related?"

Owen looks surprised by my question. "I thought he would've mentioned it." A second slithers past, uncomfortable and leaving a trail of unspoken things in its wake. "Landon's my son."

I don't exactly think of what I'm about to say when I round on the kid. "You told me your father was dead!"

Landon doesn't miss a beat. "Well, he is. On the
inside
."

I know he means it as a joke. It would be funny if it weren't for Owen's reaction. His jaw is tight but behind the tired look of frustration is something else, something less edgy and more vulnerable.

"I'll just wait for Rob upstairs," Landon says.

Owen brings a hand to rub over his eyebrow. "Rob? I thought the plan was for us to go bowling."

Landon throws his head back. "I told you I'm going over Rob's tonight. You never listen to me."

Without warning, they both turn to me and I realize that instead of walking backward toward the exit like I imagined myself to be, I've been hovering by the entrance to the back hall, watching their awkward exchange.
 

Pivoting on my heel, I make a casual show out of examining the announcements pinned to the corkboard on the wall. Though I'm only pretending to be interested, one of the flyers catches my attention, for real. There's a loft for rent with an ocean view. The picture of it shows a cozy little place, an open floor plan, and a modern and fresh design despite the antique, attic quality of the slanted ceiling. Looking at this picture brings a flurry to my stomach. I don't care about square footage. I'd just love to get a little place like this, all on my own.

Owen and Landon finish their discussion and apparently, Landon is being picked up in fifteen minutes. "Can I go hang out upstairs?" he asks his father, as though already bored to be around us.

"Don't touch the trims, I just painted them." Owen says in a tired voice.
 

Landon mumbles something and I catch movement from the corner of my eye. As the kid walks past me, I swear he winks. I stare after him, watching him disappear down the short hall and go through a back exit I'm assuming leads to the upstairs.
 

Well, that was weird.
 

"Are you looking for a place?" Owen asks, noticing the ad for the loft in my hand.
 

"Yeah." When did I pull the ad off the bulletin board? "I mean—no. Just looks like a nice place."
 

"I see." Disappointment whisks past his face, as he turns his attention fleetingly toward the hall where Landon just disappeared.

I pin the page back to the board, quietly wondering if I could find a similar place in San Francisco on such short notice or if I'll end up having to settle for something much less appealing with a roommate who's a closet meth addict.

"Maybe we—" I'm interrupted by the shrill ringing of my phone. It's Amelia. The thought of leaving Owen now causes guilt to drum on me even though I'm not the one who ditched him. His son did. The little asshole.
 

Owen nods to my phone. "Is that your date?"

"It's—no. It's not a date, it's my friend. We're—"

Once again I'm interrupted by my phone, this time a chime of a text message.

[Are you still coming over?]

"We have plans tonight. But…." I pause in my answer to Owen in order to respond to the text.

 
[Something came up. Rain check?]

Amelia will be fine, she only asked me over because she's worried about me.
 

I go on, shaking my head at my phone. "But she bailed on me."

[Okay, you flake. Just don't go gazing off any bridges tonight. You'll figure everything out. You always do.]

My stomach contracts when I realize she's talking about Bernstein blacklisting me. For a minute there, I'd almost forgotten about that.

Owen watches me as I slip my phone back in my purse.

"I guess we both got stood up," he says.

"I guess we did." I glance over at the doorway of the kitchen. "What are the chances I can order some pancakes?"

"Well, that depends. What are the chances you can get out of those heels and help me make them?"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The florescent lights in the kitchen take a few seconds to buzz awake after Owen flips the switch. When light pours down over us, it reflects over the stainless steel table running down the center of the room. I walk around, seeing how incredibly spotless the place is, something serene about it despite its cold metal and white tiles.
 

The place is dead quiet. I slide my phone out of my purse. "Do you mind if I turn on some music?"

"Music?" he says it like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.

"Yeah, music. I promise it won't kill you."

He looks like he's about to tell me music isn't a good idea, but I pull my lips up into a grin and hit the play button. Upbeat music from my playlist pours from my speakers. Owen's narrowed eyes tell me he thinks it's unnecessary. I pretend not to notice him and do a small dance as I walk along, taking in the rest of the kitchen.
 

When I glimpse at him over my shoulder, I notice him watching me dance. We share a reminiscing look and I know he's thinking of the other night at the bar. And just like it did that night, his smile nearly knocks me on my ass. I have no idea why he spends so much time frowning when he could have women falling at his feet with a flash of that smile.
 

Owen's phone buzzes and after a quick glance at it, he says, "Landon left."

I walk back to Owen and lean over the countertop beside him, drumming my fingers as he pours batter onto the griddle. There are questions gnawing away at me and I'm not sure how intrusive they are.