Page 14 of Chasing Wildflowers
When he looks at me with that intensity, I want to throw away every rule I made for myself.
Six
Jameson
“I mailed you a couple of DNA samples,” I tell Miles, my phone warm against my ear as I shoulder the door to my motel room open.
The door sticks halfway, scraping against the worn, dingy carpet before finally giving way. The air hits me like a damp rag. Musky with stale cigarettes and the acrid tang of bleach. It clings to my clothes, coating my tongue. I toss my keys onto the chipped dresser, the jingle echoing in the hollow room.
On the other end, I hear the faint clicking of a keyboard. “Do you think it’s her?”
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I run a hand through my hair. “I’m not sure. That’s why I need those results.”
“Does this have anything to do with the search that was just run on your name twenty minutes ago?”
So, she looked me up. Smart girl.
She won’t find much. I gave her my real name, but all she’ll get is a bland professional profile for a land surveyor, courtesy of Miles. No socials. No traceable history. It’s too risky in my line of work.
Which reminds me—
“Thanks again for giving me the world's most boring job as a cover asshole,” I grit out, already mentally planning my payback.
His laugh bursts through the phone, keys clicking faster. “That was for telling that pretty redhead at the bar, the story about me shitting myself on the eighth-grade field trip. Which, by the way, was your fault.”
Damn it. I thought he forgot about that.
“There were no rules when you bet me you could take her home by the end of the night.”
His tone shifts, losing the humor. “Everything good, man?”
I rub a hand down my face, feeling the scratch of my beard under my palm. “Yeah. Everything's fine. How long for the results?”
“Two weeks, give or take,” he says, his voice still edged with suspicion.
Fuck. I was hoping for sooner.
“Call me as soon as you have the results. I’ll keep an eye on her until then.”
“Will do. Just…be careful,” Miles warns. “If she’s who we think she is, she’s clever.”
“I always am.” I hang up and toss my phone aside.
I wasn’t following Lane earlier when I spotted her leavingBetween the Pages. After mailing the samples, Istopped at the coffee shop across the street and sat outside. Then I felt it, that pull again. The same one from last night. Like my body knew before my eyes did. I looked up, and there she was.
Last night, when I came back to my room after the bar, I searched both Lane's and Kam’s names. Not a single mention of Lane Maddox anywhere on the internet. Odd.
Next, I searched Kam’s name. Her shop info and socials popped up, nothing out of the ordinary. I scrolled each one, searching for a thread back to Lane. Again nothing. And again, very odd.
I rub at my temples, a tension headache quickly forming. I should stay away from her until I get the DNA results. Because, despite what I told Miles, and myself, “keeping an eye” on her isn’t the only reason I want to see her again.
Fuck it.
I snatch my phone off the bed, shoving it into my pocket, and grab my keys on the way out the door.
The sun is setting when I pull up toThe Broken Bottle, casting the one-story run-down building in hues of pinks and oranges. This building has definitely seen better days.
The sign hanging above the front door is faded. The siding warped and peeling. A flickering OPEN sign buzzes weakly in the window. The parking lot is full of potholes. Inside, it’s not much better; a burn ridden, dingy carpet covers the floor surrounding the bar, the leather barstools are cracked and worn, and layers of nicotine and grease cover the walls.
