With the danger passed, I greedily drank in the sight of him. He was bigger—not taller, of course, but thicker, harder—and the same went for his presence. He had an edge to him that had been missing when he’d left Alba a decade ago, and those impenetrable walls he’d always kept felt even more impossible to breach. But his eyes— Those carried the same grief that had echoed in mine when I’d seen him last.

He and Xander walked forward, pausing to no doubt discuss what was going on with their father as Art stood with Captain Hall, getting a quick field exam. Mr. Daniels was shaking his head, as if trying to explain the situation.

It had been tragic when Mrs. Daniels had died. Heartbreaking to bury Sullivan nine years later. But watching Arthur Daniels these last two years felt like burying a piece of him at a time, and it was torturous.

“Don’t see much of you around town, Willow. You still playing with your paints?” Robbie Acosta asked, smirking down at me as Gideon joined the Daniels brothers.

“You still pretending there’s enough crime here to warrant your job?” I retorted, my voice saccharine sweet. My graphic design business kept me more than financially comfortable, but no one ever took note of that. It was always the painting—or lack thereof—that people wanted to bring up.

Guess it was more fun for them to pick at my scabs than examine their own.

“Whoa.” Robbie held his hands up like he was under arrest—like Cam had when he’d appeared in the field ahead of me. “Put your claws away, Willow. I’m just teasing.”

“Yeah. Not in the mood.” I kept my focus entirely on Cam’s back. An all-too-familiar ache invaded my chest. When had he gotten home? How long was he here for? What—or rather whom—was he going to break this time?

“You need to get out more, especially if the only time you’re social includes a man with dementia and a loaded gun,” Robbie said, his voice pitching higher than I’d ever heard in high school as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You know, maybe I could take you to dinner?”

“I’m sorry?” I asked him, my head tilted to the side in genuine confusion. “You want to take me to dinner?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged with a sheepish smile.

“You…you don’t like me,” I said slowly, shaking my head.

He’d always gone for the prom queens—the girls who had perfected their makeup by middle school. The ones in Buena Vista, where we’d gone to school, who were styled and Instagrammed. I was twenty-five and didn’t even have a personal Instagram account…or any interest in Robbie.

“I mean, you’re single. I’m single. Makes sense, right?”