Clink. Clink. Clink.
Charlotte’s fork hits her plate each time she cuts into her spaghetti, making me tense up. Cal and Terrence both twist their noodles around their forks, splattering sauce everywhere, but my sister cuts hers into tiny pieces.
We’ve gone to blows over this before.
Once, when I was twelve, I was particularly irritated by the sounds she was making and deliberately sent my milk spilling across the table and into her lap. She screeched and bitched at me for not paying attention.
But the sounds stopped.
How do I make them stop this time?
“Do you really think she’s yours?” Cal asks over a mouthful of noodles, his attention on Terrence.
I’m dragged from the clinking to inspect Terrence’s features. His full lips press together as he frowns. I skim my gaze over his uneven flesh on his head where hair doesn’t grow. The dent would be less noticeable if hair grew there. It makes me wonder if it ever will.
“It’s a real possibility the kid is mine,” Terrence says with a huff. “I need to find Lacey, but…”
Terrence might have a kid?
Interesting.
“But what?” I ask.
“I don’t even know where to start.” He scowls.
I whip out my phone, ignoring my meal. “What’s her name?”
“Lacey Henderson,” Terrence replies, his spine straightening. “She’s in Florida right now.”
“What does she look like?” My attention is on my phone as I prowl through social media on a hunt to find her, starting with Facebook.
“White. Blonde. My age.” He sighs. “It’s been years, so I don’t remember much else.”
Strange.
Nothing on Facebook.
I skip over to Instagram. Nothing there either.
“Have you asked Garrett to look into it?” Cal asks Terrence. “Maybe he could help.”
“Does Dad know her?” Charlotte pipes in, setting her fork down.
Thank baby Jesus for the reprieve.
“Lacey’s stepdad, Jack, brought the little girl in to see Garrett yesterday. I tried to talk to Jack and he flew outta there with the girl. She looks just like me.” Terrence sighs. “I want to know for sure, but I can’t figure out how to get a hold of Lacey.”
I take a moment to study Terrence. His skin is a dark, golden brown everywhere besides his pink, garish scars on the left side of his head. Mahogany-colored eyes are rimmed in thick, long black lashes that draw your attention there. His black eyebrows are a pleasant thickness—not bushy or thin—and the one over his right eye peaks a little higher than the left, as though he’s continually smirking or amused. I like how his nose is a little wide, and how his nostrils flare each time he breathes. His cheeks, chin, and around his mouth are dusted in shortly cropped black facial hair. Like his short hair on his head, his facial hair is trimmed along the edges in a blunt, precise way that makes me appreciative of the clean lines. It’s something people probably wouldn’t notice, but it’s evident he spends time making it perfect and I like that. The most intriguing part about him are his lips. They’re pink, the hue contrasting against his brown skin, drawing your eye to them. His bottom lip is a little fuller than the top one, giving him a naturally pouty look. The corners of his mouth curl slightly up, making it seem as though he’s always smiling, even when he’s not.
Charlotte continues her clinking with her fork, jolting me out of my blatant stare down of Terrence. I shudder at the sound, trying to shake off the way it affects me.
“I’ll get Jack’s address from Dad. We can pay him a visit,” I offer. “Shake him down.”
Cal snorts. “Okay, Detective English. Because, yeah, that’s how the real world works.”
I flip him off, flashing him my nastiest glare. “What are you suggesting? That he waits until she comes to him?”
“I’m just saying it doesn’t work that way, kid,” Cal explains.
“Not to mention,” Charlotte chimes in, “Dad isn’t going to give out his patients’ information.”
“Who said I was going to ask Dad?” I lift a brow. “I have my own ways of getting info from him.”
Cal rolls his eyes and Charlotte frowns in disapproval. Terrence, though, narrows his eyes at me, searching for my sincerity.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” I tell him.
His lips quirk up on one side in a boyish grin that makes my stomach tighten for some weird reason. Again, I blame my period and Charlotte’s spaghetti.
The moment Cal starts mauling Charlotte in the kitchen as she tries to clean up dinner, I bail. Grabbing my coat, I toss it on and slip out of the cabin. A blast of cold air chills me to the bone, but I suck in a deep, steadying breath and walk down the porch steps.
Outside, it’s quiet.
Soundless.
Perfect.
Tiny dots of snow land on my face, cooling pinpricks on my warm skin. I close my eyes, reveling in the chilly silence. A soft click can be heard and then muted footsteps. The frigid evening air is blocked by a solid wall of heat. My heart rate speeds up, making blood rush to my ears, creating a white noise of sorts.
I snap my eyes open, craning my head to look up at the man standing in front of me. Too close. Too close and yet I don’t step away. He’s tall like Cal, though maybe not quite his height. His head is tilted down as he stares at me, brows furled.
“What?” I grind out, my voice husky sounding.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His words are a gentle whisper. “Not after what happened with your sister.”
The heat that was coiling in my belly cools. “They’ve been dealt with, remember? The Cunninghams aren’t running loose and certainly aren’t concerned with me.”
A blast of wind whistles past us, sending loose strands of my hair sticking to my face. Terrence raises his hand, making me tense. My frown deepens when he uses a finger to hook across the hairs, catching them in his grip. A shudder trembles through me as he tucks the hair behind my ear.
Why is he touching me?
Why don’t I hate it?
“You know you can talk to me,” Terrence rumbles, the gravel in his words rolling over my skin in a painful way.
I recoil, taking a necessary step back. “About what?”
His droopy eye is no longer noticeable as his eyes narrow to slits. “Everything. Anything. Nothing.”
Sounds like too many words.
“I don’t like talking,” I bite out. “Talking is stupid.”
It is. So stupid.
“What if I was the one who needed to talk to you?” Vulnerability shines in his reddish-brown eyes that seem to burn with intensity.
“I’d say talk to yourself,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Ouch.” He grimaces. “I thought we were cool, Penny.”
Guilt claws at me, tearing holes into the impenetrable walls I keep around myself.
“We’re cool, dent head,” I grumble. “I’m just not a good listener. Or talker.”
“You’re good with Tierra,” he argues, his head tilting to one side as he scrutinizes me. “And she talks a whole fucking lot.”
“You really need to talk to me?” I arch a brow up. “What about Cal? Roan? Jordy?”