Page 72 of Small Town, Big Storm

I shake myself and pull it open, thinking it’s probably Clover—or more likely, her cousin Riley, who I’ve caught Rain glaring at several times over the last few days—to remind him about clearing out the gutters and trimming back those cedars.

“What the fuck?”I grind out when I see it’s decidedlynotClover.

Or Riley.

Instead, my teammate Shep is standing on the front porch, his smile wide, his eyes amused, his gaze drifting behind me.“Nice place you got here.”

“It’s a shithole,” I mutter.

“Yup,” he says cheerfully.“It sure is.”His gaze flicks down to the jacket in my hand.“Going somewhere?”

Yup.Straight to hell.

“Nope,” I lie.

He smirks.“Okay then.So, you gonna let me in?”

Motherfucker.

“Nope,” I say again.

“So…” He looks around the rotting exterior then turns back to me, grinning like the asshole he is.“We’ll just face off on the front porch then?”

Christ.

I tilt my head back, stare up at the peeling paint on the ceiling.Then, knowing there’s no point in prolonging the torture that is Shep, I exhale heavily and look back at my teammate.“I’m walking downtown.”

“I like that we’re sharing.”He rolls a hand.“But give me more, Stormy.Why are we walking downtown?”

I don’t miss the fucking nickname.And I don’t miss that he’s saidwe.

But I don’t acknowledge either.

Giving Shep an inch is giving him a mile.

“I’m,” I emphasize, “getting a drink and then going to bed.You’re”—I gesture to his car parked at the curb—“going to drive your ass out of?—”

“Cool,” He interrupts, turning on his heel and walking down the driveway.“I’m thirsty.Let’s hit it.”

I debate slamming the door shut and going back upstairs.

But the lock doesn’t work, and Shep is totally the type of person to let himself in.

And second…

Peaches and cream skin.Vanilla in my nose.Holly’s laughter in my ears and a chance at spending more time with both of them—even under Shep’s watchful gaze.

It’s more appealing than brooding in my room.

Even under the aforementioned watchful gaze.

I tug the door shut behind me, start following my teammate down the driveway and along the sidewalk.

He gestures at a sign stapled to a telephone pole as I come up beside him.

“What’s the Cedar Hollow Mafia?”he asks with a frown.“Some kind of neighborhood watch?”

“Not exactly,” I say.