Page 18 of The Voice We Find

I twist and pour and place the short glass on a cocktail napkin for him, but instead of reaching for the drink he’s requested, he holds out a hand to me. I don’t miss the way his sleeve inches back to reveal his designer watch. It’s the same brand my father wears. My brother, as well. “I’m Clinton Owens.” He flashes a grin I’m sure any orthodontist would proudly hang on their wall and shakes my hand. “And you are Miss Sophie Wilder, the younger and, dare I say, most intriguing Wilder of the bunch to date.” Though his voice registers low on my creep radar, his boldness is unnerving. I’m not wearing a name badge, so I’m not exactly sure how—

He unclasps my hand but keeps his eyes trained on me. “Forgive me. I couldn’t help myself.” He winks. “Your brother gave up your identity when I complimented the spot-on wine pairings you recommended to me at the beginning of the night. Good taste must run in your bloodline, although I’m curious as to why you’re back here and not out there.” He tips his head to the patio, where the majorityof the VIPs have migrated. It’s only then I realize how few people remain in the dining area. Three, no four, men occupy a corner table. All on their third or fourth round of something or other.

It’s then I pull out my bag of tricks and aim to play the part of a woman with far more confidence than I possess naturally. It’s always been easier to assume the identity of a character I create than play myself, especially while in proximity to my family. “I’m afraid my good taste doesn’t count for much outside the realm of wine pairings. You should know I’ve been known to indulge in pickle-flavored ice cream when the mood strikes.” I shrug to say,See, this is why you shouldn’t be impressedand wait for him to pull a sour face. But the expression he pulls is not sour at all.

“A bit of a daredevil, then? I like to walk on the wild side myself. I didn’t become a stockbroker for nothing.” He scans my face in a way that feels too familiar. “Without risk, there’s no reward.” He lifts his glass as if to make a toast, then sets it down when I don’t follow suit, as I have no beverage. Or interest, for that matter. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but considering you’re the one pouring them tonight, it’s hardly an enticing offer.”

He’s good, I’ll give him that. “I don’t drink while on shift, but thank you anyway.” I smile politely and reach for the damp rag I keep under the counter. Nothing needs cleaning at the moment, but I could use something to do with my hands. “May I get you anything else? Another Chardonnay or a—”

He rotates toward me fully. “I’m still waiting to hear the reason you’re stuck working behind that counter tonight.”

If my pulse were a color, it would be a flashing yellow light.

“I don’t care much for crowds.” It’s a blatant lie, but one the character I’ve created believes wholeheartedly. And by his studious nod, Clinton buys it.

He plants an elbow on the custom bar top and stares into my eyes. “How about a private tour, then?” A subtle eyebrow raise followed by a once-over assessment. “I’ve been waiting—not so patiently, I might add—to see your brother’s art collection in the cellar.” He rocks in closer until the arms of his suit coat pull taut.

At the mention of the cellar, something inside me begins to quake, and it takes every ounce of my acting skills to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Owens, but I’m afraid I know nothing about my brother’s collection and even less about art. You’d be much better off asking him for a tour.”

“No offense to your brother, but he’s not my type.” Clinton gives me yet another wink. “However, I’d be up for negotiating a trade. If you escort me to the cellar, then I’d be happy to give you a lesson in fine art. I keep a few of my favorite pieces aboard my yacht in the bay.” His voice drops to a suggestive whisper. “You’d be welcome anytime.”

Just as I open my mouth to refuse him, my gaze collides with something else. Or rather, on someone else. My brother. The overseer of my future. He’s eyeing me expectantly as if he’s somehow heard every word of this conversation. Natalie’s instructions at the beginning of the VIP event boomerang back to my ears in full surround sound: “We do our best to accommodate any requests from our guests.”

I ball my trembling hands into fists under the counter and fight against the way my vision collapses in on itself. I can’t act my way out of this one. And I also know I cannot go down to that cellar. No matter what.

“Come on, Sophie.” Clinton eyes me with a level of presumption that twists my stomach. “I’m sure your brother won’t mind if you step away for a few minutes.”

“I’m–”

“Actually, Mr. Owens, I’m afraid Sophie has a previous engagement to get to tonight, but I’d be happy to give you a tour of the cellar and answer any questions you may have regarding Jasper’s collection.” Natalie turns to me and makes a show of checking her tiny gold wristwatch encrusted with diamonds. “You’d better be on your way. Thanks for stepping in tonight.”

Though I have no clue what prompted her fabricated tale or her willingness to stick her neck out for me, when she gestures to Mr. Owens to follow her, he does. Albeit with more than a littlereluctance. “It was nice to meet you, Sophie. I hope our paths cross again someday.”

I want to tell him I hope the opposite, but instead, I check the corner of the room where my brother was only moments ago. He’s gone, and I have a strong feeling Natalie timed her intervention accordingly. But why? I don’t know.

I also don’t wait around to find out.

6

August

It’s not until I’m balancing on the top rung of a ladder leaning against the warped roofline of my mom’s old greenhouse that I consider the repercussions of taking on such a project alone. Perhaps my confidence is riding higher than usual this morning after an evening spent researching the ins and outs of a side gig I hadn’t put much stock into—that is, until a remarkable brunette entered my studio and pulled the rip cord on my expectations.

The cumbersome roof vent I’m holding above my head tries its best to rock me off-center, but I’m no lightweight. I didn’t recover this thing from the back acre of my neighbor’s overgrown property just to lose it to the wind again. And I didn’t agree to let Sophie record in my studio only to muck it up on account of my ignorance on all things fiction. No matter how long she intends to stay in the area, I know she’s something special. That moment we shared before she left my studio was the closest thing to hope I’ve felt in approximately two years.

With my father’s drill in hand, I strain to slide the problematic vent across the exposed opening. Before I can secure it fully, my vision snags on the herb garden my mother once meticulously maintained inside these weathered walls. Though my father built this greenhouse as an anniversary gift for her, my mom’s presence looms in the handwritten signs that hang from the rafters, indicating the location of each variety.

Perhaps, in her own way, that’s what Sophie is, too. A sign to point me in the right direction after so many wrong turns and dead ends.A sign?I shake my head at the random intrusive thought. But before I can blink them away, a pair of gorgeous green eyes looms steady at the forefront of my mind, shimmering with the kind of enchantment that both enthralls and terrifies me. And it’s then my braced knee slips from its post, kicking my only ladder to the

ground.

I scramble to find a foothold as my hands claw for anything that might keep me on this roof when something sharp rips through the flesh of my left palm. Yet I can’t lose my hold. To do so would require me to let go of my dad’s favorite possession.

I stare at it now, dangling above the earth like a trick question.

Hot, sticky blood trickles down my fingers as I assess my predicament. Particularly how to perform a slide, tuck, and roll maneuver without having to release the goods in my right hand.

Much like surfing, I tell my mind to take a back seat to my body.

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