Page 70 of Chasing Wildflowers
The keys to a happy and healthy relationship. It sounds so simple when she says it.
My fingers trace over the tattoo on my forearm, the colors vibrant and bold. I got it after I escaped my old life. A symbol of new beginnings and hope.
And now Jameson brings me wildflowers and calls me Wildflower, like it’s a better fit than my own name.
Yes, he hurt me, but he has also stayed. Even when I’ve pushed him away. Even when I’ve shut down. Even when he could have easily walked away.
The low rumble of tires crunching over gravel pulls me from my thoughts. My spine locks up briefly until I see Vic’s truck coming up the long drive. The truck comes to a stop, shutting off before the door swings open, and he steps out. He’s dressed in a black suit and tie, looking every bit the FBI agent he once was.
Mama C steps out of the front door just as he crests the top step. She doesn’t say anything; just wraps her arms around him, tucking her head under his chin. Vic kisses her on the top of her head before murmuring something I can’t hear. She laughs before looking up at him like he hung the moon.
I look away, feeling like an intruder watching their private moment. My heart aches a little with envy. I didn’t think I wanted or needed that kind of love. Not until I met Jameson.
“Lane, hunny, dinner is done,” Mama C calls as she and Vic walk into the house together, hand in hand.
When I walk into the dining room, the low hum of voices greet me. Everyone's already gathered around the long wooden table, the same one we used earlier for soap-making. The smell of roasted chicken and herbs lingers in the air, warm and comforting.
I slip into the empty chair beside Kam, idly picking at my food while conversation flows, blending with the faint scrap of forks against plates. I peek through my lashes, stealing glances at Jameson, the light curve of his lips waring with the sadness I see in his eyes. My heartsqueezes so tightly it feels like it might unravel, torn between wanting to reach for him and knowing I can’t.
After everyone is finished eating, dessert is passed around, a buttery sweet slice of apple pie that has my mouth watering. Vic clears his throat, the sound cutting through the chatter. I pause, fork half way to my mouth. His gaze slides toward me and Kam, steady and unreadable. “I need to ask you both some questions.”
Kam and I glance at each other, then back to him, and nod.
He pushes his half eaten pie away and folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Let’s start with the obvious. We know it's not Byron's family or the police who are after you. Is there anyone else from your past, or his, that might have a reason to track you down?”
I shake my head, setting my fork down. “I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to think of anyone who would benefit from finding me after so long. I can’t think of anyone.”
“What about your family?” Vic presses. “You’re mother or step-father?”
The mention of my mother sends a jolt of anger through me, sharp and hot. “That’s even more unlikely. Trust me, my Mother wouldn’t lift a finger to find me. I’m sure she’s spent the last five years milking the ‘mother of a murderer’ card for sympathy and attention,” I spit, the word leaving a metallic taste at the back of my throat.
Vic shifts comfortably in his chair, the wood groaning beneath him, and casts a quick glance at his wife, who rests a reassuring hand on his arm. “Okay,” he says, voice careful, eyes flicking between me and Kam. “Have either of you seen anyone new in town lately?”
My stomach drops. How could I have forgotten? “The flowers.” I blurt out, my eyes snapping to Jameson’s. “The man who delivered the flowers to the bar, I didn’t recognize him. I even asked Betsy if they had hired someone new. She said no.”
Jameson’s posture goes rigid. “What did he look like?” he asks, between clenched teeth.
I close my eyes, forcing the memory into focus. “Late twenties, clean-shaven, dark eyes, and his hair was buzzed close to his head. Around six feet, maybe a little taller.”
Jameson’s eyes snap to Miles. “Check the footage.”
Miles is already pushing his chair back, the legs squeaking sharply against the tile, slicing through the thick, suffocating tension hanging in the air. “On it.”
My eyes follow him as he strides out of the room, before settling on Jameson again. “Footage?” I ask, voice tight. “You have access to the bar’s cameras?”
He nods, his tone even. “Yes. But the only time we checked them was the night I realized he had found you. I wanted to make sure you were safe. That’s all.”
His voice softens. “I told you no more secrets or withholding information from you. I know it’s going to take you a while to trust me again, but I swear, anything I know, you will know too.”
I stare into his stormy eyes, feeling the pull between us. I’m not ready to trust him with my heart again, but it aches for him. It feels like we’re separated by miles, even though we’re under the same roof.
“Kam, let’s go show Vic all the soap we made today,” I hear Mama C say, as she rises from her chair,the soft scrape of its legs the only sound in the suddenly quiet room.
Kam gives me a look of amusement before following her out of the room, Vic trailing behind, leaving me alone with Jameson.
“Lane,” Jameson murmurs, pulling my attention back to him. “I swear, that was the only time I checked the cameras. I didn’t spy on you. I didn’t even snoop through your medicine cabinets, though I was a little tempted,” he says, giving me a little smirk. “I wanted to get to know you.” His tone grows more serious. “Not the version I could piece together by snooping around.”
“I believe you,” I whisper and mean it. But I don’t let the moment linger. “Do you think they will be able to find the guy from the footage?”
