Page 39 of Middle Ground
Her lips quirk. “I haven’t fully made up my mind yet.”
She gets out of the car first. I linger for a moment, sighing when I realize the scent of her perfume still floats in the air. Meyer has already made it to the side of the building by the time I catch up.
This is the moment where we say goodnight. She’ll retreat across the parking lot and down that path toward her little cottage. I’ll watch her leave until I can’t see her anymore, and then I’ll make my way to my room.
But none of that happens.
Meyer shifts backwards, turning toward me, and her foot gets caught in one of the many craters littering the parking lot. To save her from a sprained ankle, I spring forward with a curse, catching her around the waist.
Her hands find purchase on my shoulders. Her eyes, big and wide and sofuckingblue, latch on to mine. I like the way her hands feel on me almost as much as I like the way my fingers dig into her soft curves. When she swallows, I itch to trace the delicate skin of her throat—with my fingers, with my lips.
Her lashes—which I would gamble are naturally a pale blonde that rivals her hair but are generally covered in a layer of brown mascara—flutter.
Then Meyer’s eyes slide to the right and her whole body tenses.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as tears well in her eyes.
I whip around, an arm still anchored to her waist. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but it wasn’t the angry red lettering splashed across the side of the inn. It looks like blood marring the white exterior, but it’s more feasible that it’s paint.
Still, that isn’t what makes the blood in my veins run cold. It’s what the message says that has me tightening my grasp on Meyer. For her sake…or maybe for mine.
You will regret this.
CHAPTER 15
MEYER
You will regret this.
Despite the fact that the letters are indistinguishable now, the message is burned into my brain. Stamped behind my eyelids. I turn the words over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of them.
A hand touches my arm. “Meyer.”
I jump. I’ve been on edge since Jackson and I got back and found the paint. But my body relaxes marginally when I realize it’s only Pippa standing beside me.
Despite this, I don’t cease my angry scrubbing. I’ve been at it for hours. As soon as the police wrapped up their report, I took to the supply closet to find a bucket and some sponges.
We’ll have to have the white siding repainted. There’s no way around that. Even if I scrub until my fingers bleed, there will be no erasing this completely.
“Meyer,” she says more forcefully, grabbing the sponge I’m holding. “Stop.”
“I already tried that,” Jackson says. He pushes away from where he was leaning farther down the wall, looking as weary as I feel. “It didn’t end well.”
We all look at the patch of red slashed across the front of his white shirt from where I pressed a hand against him. He abandoned his jacket some time ago, so at least I don’t have to feel bad about possibly ruining one of his suits.
Pippa sighs. She retracts her hand and folds her arms against her chest, hugging herself. “Who would do this?” she asks. “Why?”
I let the sponge fall to the ground with a splat. Then I stare at my hands, tinged red from the water and paint mixture I created. It looks a lot like blood.
Wordlessly, Jackson passes me a dry cloth, and I wipe my palms clean.
“You should go home, Pip,” I say. My voice is scratchy, my throat impossibly dry. “It’s late.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Declan’s home with Atticus. My priority right now isyou.”
I offer her a reassuring smile. At least, I try to. Her frown indicates that perhaps it turns out more like a grimace.
“Really, it’s okay. I promise I’m done with the scrubbing. I just want to go to bed.”
