Page 27 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Not the whole truth, but enough of it. If she didn’t get into Jack’s estate by sundown Sunday, she’d have to shift gears and break in. Quit cruising at this too-enjoyable speed.

She pressed her fingers to her abdomen, over the scar Yevgen Liski had given her during the Monet job. The psychopath had tattooed a knife on his forearm—a copy of the weapon he’d used on Clementine—proud of the work he’d done. He’d trailed her one day and flashed it while on a subway platform. A scare tactic, likely. Or for his insane thrills. The incident was a reminder of what happened when she failed.

Getting to know Jack and his reptile shelter was a luxury she couldn’t overindulge. Mistakes on a job had consequences.

Lucien: Your con, your rules. Call me in the morning with an update.

She would, but something about reporting on Jack felt dirty.

“What can I get ya, honey?”

Clementine perked up at the familiar voice. “Imelda?”

“Last I checked.”

“I thought you worked at the diner and walked dogs.” God, this town was on the miniscule side of small.

Imelda shone her knuckles on her shirt. “I’m a woman of many talents, who gets bored and likes to keep busy.”

Imelda looked less doll-like tonight, her usual powder-blue diner uniform swapped for a plaid button-down, positioned to hint at cleavage. It was the same cowgirl look worn by the other servers.

Imelda blew a wayward curl from her forehead. “Plus, my husband comes in and pretends to pick me up. Makes for good fun.”

“Can’t argue with that. And I’ll have a stout, if you have one on tap.” Anything rich and dark with a hint of bitterness. Something to pucker her tongue so she’d stop wondering what Jack tasted like.

Imelda nodded and went to work.

Clementine watched a man and woman playing pool. They brushed shoulders, giggled, and traded teasing smiles. So at ease with each other. No concern for who was watching them or hiding their feelings. Maybe they were married or flirting for the first time. No. Married. Their rings caught the light, winking secretly at each other. Such a bond, to pledge yourself to someone. Too often, people took it for granted. Vows were tossed around as readily as salutations, off the cuff, on a whim, because it felt good now. The world had become a culture of right now.

The need for immediate gratification felt diluted in Whichway. Aside from Jack’s luxury automobiles, no one seemed to compete for fanciest car or trendiest clothes, the relaxed vibe of this bar proof enough. Everything moved slower, actions more meaningful. Smiles were real. Hellos were genuine. Clementine had never considered leaving New York. Now…she didn’t know.

What would it be like to nest in Whichway and sip coffee at the Who’s It Café and run at Wherever Park and drink beer at Whenever and eat apple turnovers at the Whatnot Diner on the fly? She rolled her eyes at the idea. It was a selfish daydream. Ridiculous.

Imelda pushed the stout toward her. “Someone’s got an admirer.”

“Admirer?” Clementine said, playing the innocent. But, oh yeah, she felt those aquamarine eyes all over her. The awareness came with a sting of self-rebuke. Jack had been all she’d focused on since walking in here. She’d scanned the exits, had done a half-assed sweep of the patrons and texted Lucien, but Jack’s unrelenting stare had reduced her to a tingly mess while she’d gaped starry-eyed at couples playing pool.

Imelda waved her fingers playfully. “Oh, go on now. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed a certain dark-haired man’s attention. He can’t take his eyes off you, and I’ve seen you two at the diner, close but not close, testing the waters like a couple lovesick teens.”

“Imelda!”

“What? The tension’s thick enough to carve.”

“I’m here for the festival, not to date.” She was also there to lie to everyone’s faces while deceiving the first man in a lifetime to make her feel real. She sipped her beer, the bitterness more pronounced than usual.

Imelda harrumphed loud enough to be heard over the country tunes. “He’s still a fine male specimen.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Or with the way her body responded to his proximity. Not turning around was a Herculean effort.

“Hard to believe that tall drink of whiskey was once all elbows and knees.”

Clementine nearly choked on her beer. “There’s no way.”

“God’s honest truth.”

“Like, gawky but handsome?”

Another waitress, with a halo of tight red curls and big green eyes, poked her head over Imelda’s shoulder. “Oh, girl. Not even close. As awkward as a newborn foal. The handsome bug didn’t bite his sweet ass until college.” She winked at Clementine. “I’m Tami.”