Page 74 of The Voice We Find

My bottom lip begins to quiver. “I overheard my father on the phone with the detective. He thinks I fabricated the story and staged the evidence—everything from the clipped circuit board to the broken glass in the cellar to locking myself inside only a few hours before our housekeeper found me. The only thing that could have proved how long I was in there was my dehydration, but I never went to the doctor. Maria, like most of our staff, was afraid of my father and the ramifications of crossing him. She insisted I eat, drink, and shower before my parents came home. By the time they saw me, their doubts about my story were already starting to creep in. My father turned down the option of funding a private investigation.”

Still balancing on the balls of his feet in front of me, he cups my face in his hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Tears slip from the corners of my eyes. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Neither did you.”

Thehot coil in my chest begins to unravel as his eyes search my face, and I know without a fraction of doubt that he was right before. That I’m safe here. That I’m safe with him.

It’s been more than ten years since the nights I spent trapped in that cellar. Ten years since I hummed Gigi’s favorite hymn in the darkness to block out the fear. Ten years since I began to question if I would ever experience the kind of affection August has shown me over the last few months.

He’s only a fraction of a breath away, but in this moment it feels too far.

When I flatten my palm to his chest, I don’t use it to push him away like I did on the beach. This time, I use it to grip the fabric of his shirt front and pull him close. So close that when I brush my lips against his, I feel his body tense and his breath pause. For all of three seconds, the kiss I’ve imagined a hundred times over is dreamlike in its execution. Warm and soft and achingly sweet...

And then it’s over.

August loses his center of gravity and topples to the side, catching himself with one hand as his backside hits the floor.

His face looks almost as stunned as mine feels. Did I really just kiss him? And on the same night I spilled my guts about my childhood trauma? Wow, how beautifully romantic of me. But before I can utter a word of apology, he makes a miraculous recovery, wasting no time in reclaiming my mouth.

Within two heartbeats, it’s clear this kiss is not some pity-driven momentary lapse in judgment. Rather, August kisses me the way I imagine he’d compose an original song. Like he’s searching for each right note in a melody only he can hear. I’ve performed on dozens of stages in my short career as an actress, but no music has ever caused my lips to hum like this. Or my heart to sing.

We may not know what comes next for us, but I do know I never want this song to end.

19

August

The only problem with kissing Sophie Wilder is that I never want tostopkissing her.

Even after the storm dies down and it’s safe enough to trek to the house via the garage, returning to those lips remains a top priority.

It ranks right below locating my dad’s old generator.

As soon as I plug in the extension cord to power the kitchen lights and the refrigerator, Sophie does a little dance that does nothing to decrease my desire to kiss her senseless for a second time. But after glimpsing the fallen tree limbs carpeting the driveway from the front windows, my mind pulls in an entirely new direction. If the roads are even half as bad as the driveway, it’s likely I’ll be exercising a hefty dose of self-control for the remainder of our evening together.

Starting now.

I reach for the utility flashlight I brought in from the garage. “You okay if I take a look around outside?”

She looks from the darkened back patio doors to me. “Sure youdon’t want to take a buddy with you?” She winks. “Might be a good time to put our system to the test.”

I step toward her, zeroing in on a pout I hope to get better acquainted with. “I’d much rather my buddy stay inside where its safe.” I touch her chin before I turn for the front door.

“Then I’ll make us a snack dinner for when you’re back.”

I twist back. “A what dinner?”

“Fancier folks might call it a charcuterie board, but Dana and I always called them snack dinners when we lived together in New York.” She shrugs. “It’s easier to say and less pretentious.”

I make a mental note to ask her more about New York when I return. Truth is, there’s a lot I’d like to discuss with her when I return. And by the way she eyes me, she knows it, too.

“Call it whatever you want,” I tease, “as long assnackdoesn’t indicate portion size. Because if that’s the case, you should know I’m all-you-can-eat-buffet-level hungry.”

“Don’t worry.” She laughs and turns toward the pantry door. “I’ll take good care of you.”

I tell myself it’s just an expression, that she doesn’t mean it literally. But just the possibility of having Sophie in my corner long after our audio projects conclude is a hope that feels too good to be true.

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