Page 66 of The Fall Back Plan
When we reach my truck, he hauls me into a hug. He doesn’t ask, but I don’t need him to, which surprises me.
“Thanks for all of this,” he murmurs, his breath stirring strands of my hair.
“No problem.” I hug him back and listen to the steady thump of his heart.
“It’s a big deal to everyone in our house,” he says. “And I’m sorry I don’t have anything specific to tell you about the doll situation yet. Slocum has narrowed it down to two suspects. She’s interviewing one tomorrow, and the other is out of town for a few more days, according to a neighbor.”
I lean back. “Do you know when that one left?”
“Saturday.” His eyes are glinting in the light of a bright half-moon.
“And when was the last time someone reported getting a doll?” I ask.
“The day before that.”
I let out a pent-up breath, realizing he’s probably found his culprit, and relax against his chest. “I’m so ready for this to be over.”
He hugs me tighter. “I know.”
We stand there quietly for several moments before I hear the steady beats of his heart increasing. He lets me go.
“Better get in your truck, friend,” he says.
“I wore a cute shirt,” I blurt.
“You, uh . . . yes? You did. I noticed.”
I climb into the truck, shut the door, and lower the window, which means I’m looking down at him. “I don’t know why I wore a cute shirt to come talk to a ten-year-old.”
Lucas rests his hand on the truck door, a slow smile spreading over his face. “I don’t know, Jo. Sounds like you got yourself another mystery.”
“It wasn’t for you.” I’m going to speak it into truth for myself.
“’Course not,” he says. “Sleep well. I’ll have answers for you soon.”
I pull away with a bunch more questions and make the short drive to my house.
No, only one question.
What is wrong with me?
I left Chicago because my perfectly planned life fell apart. I came back to Harvest Hollow to get it all back under control again. And it was. Until the first time I saw grown-up Lucas Cole.
And it spun out even more with the appearance of Sloane Oakley-Hunsaker.
I don’t want this. I want things to be sane. Ordered. Structured. Predictable.
And profitable, if my plan is going to work. Somewhere along the way, the plan went from “show the freaking Horsleys how Appalachian I am while rubbing my success in the face of my hometown haters” to “make a life here.”
I fall asleep thinking about that, and I drive to the Mockingbird the next day with a heavy heart, hoping Lucas clears my name soon but not sure even that will be enough.
A chalkboard sign on the sidewalk in front of the bar startles me as I’m turning in to park, and I get out of the truck to walk back around and read it instead of entering through the back.
“Friday Drink Special: Drink with an outlaw! Bourbon Bandits and Dolly Derbies, half price!”
I walk in through the front. Ry is behind the bar with a highball glass and a bottle of Weldon Select, a North Carolina bourbon.
“Bourbon Bandits?” I say.
