Page 63 of Slow Burn
“I don’t know…” Jocelyn shifted the bags on her arm.
“Please come!” Natasha clasped her hands like she was praying.
“I’ll try,” Jocelyn said, mostly to appease her.
It was enough to satisfy Natasha, and Jocelyn headed for the door, pushing through the guilt that she might’ve been lying to her sister. But, then again, maybe she wasn’t.
Her waffling thoughts fell right out of her head when the door opened before she could reach it, and Daniel Abbott stepped into the store.
His smile faltered as soon as he saw her. It was only one breath before he pushed forward with a practiced resolve.
“Jocelyn,” he said. It was almost a question, and the sound of her name on his lips seemed foreign.
They’d so rarely spoken to each other. She remembered the sharp arguments he’d had with her mama, how sometimes his expression softened when his eyes drifted to Jocelyn—as if seeing another life in her face—only to wrench his gaze away again.
“D-Daniel,” she managed, scooting past him.
He grimaced, his attention shifting to Natasha. “You ready, Sweetpea?”
The words pelted Jocelyn, leaving her breathless. She didn’t look back at Natasha, who called her name, only shoved through the door into afternoon light, her chest heaving until she could finally drag in oxygen.
She had thought she was ready, that she could face him. Thought she could ask her questions, maybe even repairsomething fractured long ago. But as the air pressed heavy around her, Jocelyn knew she wasn’t strong enough—at least not yet.
And when she found the newspaper clipping caught in her windshield wiper, she almost dismissed it as trash blown in on the cool breeze. But its location, and the timing, made her reach for it with a stone heavy in her stomach.
It was just a sliver, but one sentence was circled in red ink.
“Nothing but a sad accident,” she muttered.
Somebody was going a little heavy-handed.
And it was just one more damn thing she didn’t need.
twenty-four
“She was fire, and light, and ash, and embers. She was destruction and life.” - Nikita Gill
Cole dragged one of the long folding tables from his parents’ garage, muscling it up to the tailgate before shoving it into the truck bed. Hauling six-foot tables wasn’t his idea of a Saturday morning, but it kept his hands busy.
Didn’t do a damn thing to keep his head clear.
He hadn’t seen Jocelyn for near on two days, and he was lucky Friday nights at the bar were chaos. He hadn’t had more than thirty seconds to breathe, let alone brood about the fact that he hadn’t caught sight of her anywhere. By the time he finally surfaced between the dinner rush and the late-night stragglers, it’d been too late to go in search.
Something about that seemed odd. She’d been aching, sure, but she’d still had that stoniness about her that promised she'd keep digging for her answers. He’d nearly asked his mama for her number but didn’t want to invite that woman’s questions or Jocelyn’s anger for overstepping.
If he didn’t see her by lunchtime, he’d eat his pride and ask his mama. Worth checking in to make sure Jocelyn was alright, even if it stirred her up. He'd've considered inviting her to go to the bonfire, but maybe she'd had too much of flames.
He dropped another table onto the stack and turned back for the last one. Might’ve still been too warm for a fire, considering it wasn’t quite fall yet, but it was close enough that folks would turn out for anything that smelled like tradition, especially with the Harvest Festival around the corner.
“Hey, Sugar.”
That syrupy drawl cut through the thick morning air and put a ready smile on his face.
He swiped sweat from his brow and turned to the neighbor leaning on the fence. “Miz Lu. Love of my life.”
Luann Polk was pushing eighty, with silver curls tight against her head, arthritis stiffening her hips. She wore it all with pride.
She tsked, wrinkles deepening with her smile. “You’re liable to make ol’ Gentry jealous.”
