Page 5 of The Score We Never Settled

“Not with you.”

His expression hardens, but I really don’t care. He shows up, out of nowhere, and expects me to jump for joy and be at his beck and call?

Ha.

“Sensitive subject?” I taunt, giving him an arrogant little smile back.

“Nah,” he answers immediately. “Because, while I’m here, I plan on makin’ you all kinds of sensitive, Short Stop. Getting you alone sounds…like my kind of suspension.”

Right.

Like the last one.

Where he flew me out to Texas and…I mentally shake my head.

No.

Nope.

Never again.

“Keep dreaming,” I emit placidly. “I’m busy.”

“You waitin’ on Cruz?”

My face skews because, for the love of God, I am tired of hearing this man’s name. “Excuse me?”

“He’s comin’ home, ya know? You should read the damn newspaper, Short Stop. I know they still have stands of them.”

I don’t read the damn newspaper.

Don’t need to.

The town gossips about everything anyway, so I get the full scoop twenty-four-seven.

“Good for him,” I respond, even though I hope he’s not right on this one. Cruz didn’t like me, not even as a friend. He just loved getting under Brigg’s skin, and he did. I truly don’t think he ever wanted to help me have some sort of relationship with Briggs, but just to taunt him instead.

Over and over and over again.

It had everything to do with Cruz and Briggs being rivals their whole lives, and I was collateral damage.

I believed there was some good in him. And that only got me into bigger trouble with Briggs.

“Know of any good spots I can bury him?” Briggs prompts, dead-ass serious as he stares down at me. “I think it would be therapeutic, as you put it.”

“Murderwould be therapeutic for you? I think they need to lock you up.”

“Would you visit so we can have conjugal visits?” My lips part to tell him absolutely not, but Briggs invades more of my space, and all words fall to the wayside like they never existed at all. “Do you know that I still dream about you, Layla Jean? That I’ve been away for this long so I can be a better man for you?”

My heart races excitedly in my chest while my brain swoons but a small part of me pings on how much we can not stand him.

At all.

However, I still grapple with his words because they don’t match reality. It’s confusing and, truthfully, I don’t know how or where to sit with it. I’ve spent so much time just trying tobethat Briggs has become one of those things that’s never felt attainable to me.

Like a dream.

“Cornstarch.” I lay out my palm becauseI’mnot going to run away, or am I going to waste any more time grabbing one ingredient to ruin my chores today? I have pies to make for tomorrow’s special and no time to spare.