Page 42 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Clementine still wasn’t sure how that had happened. An actual date, with this wonderful man (and his family!), who’d confided his deepest secrets because he couldn’t handle lying to her. A freaking con-woman. If her guilt were any thicker, she’d drown in it.

He walked over to his sister and smoothed her hair. “How you holding up? Nap okay?”

“Not bad.” She fiddled with the hem of her T-shirt. Her outfit was hardcore. Ripped jeans. Game of Thrones T-shirt. Boots too warm for the weather. Her wavy brown hair was long and loose, lighter than Jack’s, her nose petite and feminine, but she had his aquamarine eyes.

Jack nudged Chloe’s shoulder. “Rain’s stopped. What do you say we explore the woods?”

She rolled her eyes. A barely-there effort as her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “I’m too old for that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Twelve is ancient. Maybe Clementine and I will go on our own. Check out the new jump I built last week.”

Chloe scratched her cheek, the skin already inflamed with teenage acne. She fidgeted with her hands—made him wait for it—then she grinned. “Race you to the treehouse? Loser has to eat Mom’s overcooked carrots.”

Jack shivered. “Those aren’t touching my tongue.” He glanced at Clementine, eyebrow raised. “A walk in the woods sound good to you?”

It sounded fine, but he was oblivious to her uncomfortable attire. She jerked her chin downward, toward her braless breasts. A state of undress she’d rather not share with his sister.

The clueless man mouthed, What?

She mouthed, Bra.

Him: What?

Her: BRA, but shouting in silence didn’t work.

She finally pointed at her boobs.

He cringed and patted Chloe’s shoulder. “We’ll meet you at the forest edge, Ladybug.”

Chloe side-eyed the two of them, a move that looked beyond her years, then she punched her big brother’s arm. “Be prepared to lose.”

Chloe darted from the room and Clementine slumped. “That wasn’t awkward at all.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about.” His eyelids fell heavy, clearly enamored with her sparse wardrobe.

“Stop looking at me like that. I’m in your mother’s clothes.”

“It doesn’t matter what you wear. You’re always sexy.”

Her heart gave a flutter. She still had no intention of traipsing around, boobs willy-nilly, all afternoon. “I’ll see if my sports bra’s dry. And I have a change of clothes in my car.” Because her getaway bag was always close. “Then we’ll go for a nice walk in the woods and check out this jump you built.” It would give her time to adjust to these new “dating” circumstances.

She moved to pass him, but he grabbed her upper arm. “You don’t mind spending the day with us?”

She was in his estate, could easily use the time to tour its expanse, find the Van Gogh. Nothing could be further from her mind. Especially when she’d been so close to telling him exactly what had brought her to Whichway. Instead bone-deep fear had seized her lungs. If this went much further, she’d have no choice. She’d have to risk him calling the cops and tossing her out of his house. But he’d offered her right now, and right now sounded pretty darn good. “I’d love to spend the day with you.”

14

The leisurely estate walk Clementine had pictured was anything but. Jack and his father had built an honest to God obstacle course in the woods bordering their property: planks to jump on, logs to duck under, secured knobs for climbing. Clementine wasn’t as adept as Jack and Chloe, who obviously knew the course as well as Clementine knew her Charger’s engine, but she ran and slid and jumped, her jeans slick with mud in minutes.

“Your girlfriend’s slow,” Chloe called to Jack as she bent her knees and launched herself into a suspended net. The taut fabric bounced with her weight but held firm. She rolled off the side, hurdled over a stack of tree trunks, then ran across a narrow log raised a couple of feet off the ground. Damn, she was agile.

Clementine, however, skidded to a stop. Girlfriend.

Jack didn’t notice. He kept on his sister’s heels, his dark hair flopping with his athletic stride, knee-weakening grin on his face. They disappeared ahead, Chloe’s giggles mingling with his rumbling laugh. All Clementine could think was, Girlfriend. Of all the roles she’d played, all the names she’d assumed, she’d never been one of those.

She leaned into a tree and fixed her now-dirty T-shirt, which had ridden up. Her fingertips grazed the puckered skin beneath. If a one-night stand asked about her scar, her pat reply had always been the same: “I fell through a coffee table. Sliced myself on the glass.” An easy lie, but she couldn’t imagine lying to Jack about that. He’d probably see right through her anyway, always so darn observant when together.

A loud crack snapped her attention to the right. Chloe was barreling toward her. She grabbed Clementine’s hand and yanked.