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“Alone again,” Charlie said, when the door closed behind them. 

“Not quite,” Lucy said. She was leaning against a shelf with a fresh pile of books. She cocked her head at him. “Do you always talk to yourself?”

“I think I’m a fascinating conversationalist,” he said with a hint of a smile. 

“I’m sure you do. I definitely enjoyed listening to you and Norine.”

His smile dropped into a grimace as he marked Lucy’s books for check out. “She’s just a foolish girl.”

“Thank you for standing up for Meg. She’s been pretty upset since that thing in the newspaper.”

“Is she doing okay?”

Lucy nodded. “It’s scary for all of us. The things Norine said … I’ve heard worse than that in the last few days.”

That’s right, Lucy’s name had been in the newspaper as well. She was supposed to be able to move things with her mind. He suppressed his desire to ask for a demonstration. “Don’t let them get to you.”

Lucy nodded, but her eyes were still shadowed. “I would rather I didn’t have a power. I would give anything to go back to being normal.” 

She stared at the books Charlie was holding, and he could swear that they shifted slightly under his hands. 

Lucy blinked, then put on a big smile. “I’m actually not taking all of these. This one is for you.” She pulled a paperback out of the pile. “It’s one of my favorites. I’ll read
Wuthering Heights
if you read that.”

He looked at the cover. “
Nine Coaches Waiting
.” 

“You’ll like it. The main character, Linda? She likes classics as much as you do.”

He thought he heard a hint of teasing in Lucy’s voice. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she went red. “Okay, never mind, bad idea. I’ll just go.”

Lucy gathered her books to her chest and started to leave. He thought of what Briar had said to him about pushing people away. Oh, what could it hurt? “Wait. We have a deal. I’ll read it.”

“Great,” she said, and her smile was so bright he felt guilty for hesitating. “And I’ll read
Wuthering Heights
. How bad can it be?”

Charlie almost winced, but he managed to smile instead. 

After Lucy left, he had the library to himself again. He finished alphabetizing the cart and straightened the desk. He was working on a Graham Greene novel, but he wasn’t in the mood for that right now. He picked up the book Lucy had recommended, idly flipped it open, and began to read.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Charlie

Charlie drove home after work with
Nine Coaches Waiting
shoved in his back pocket. It was a page-turner, he had to admit. The story was burning in his head, and he couldn’t wait to continue. 

When he turned onto his street, he peered at Briar’s house to see if she was home. 

He was greeted by the sight of Briar’s pretty little backside outlined by damp cutoff shorts. She was bent over a bucket, swinging her hips to music coming from the car radio while she squeezed out a rag to scrub her already-sudsy car.

That was enough to shove the book to the back of his mind. He looked at what lay in his passenger seat. It had been there since Friday night, and since Friday night he’d been making excuses about giving it to her. It wasn’t that he was avoiding her, he told himself. Not precisely. 

As he pulled into his driveway, he sneaked another glance her way. She had straightened up, and Charlie saw that she was wearing an old polka-dotted shirt, knotted at her ribs so her midriff was bare. 

He only remembered to slam his foot on the brake an inch before he crashed into the garage door. 

No, it wasn’t that he was avoiding her. It was that he was afraid of what he might do if they were alone together. 

Briar whirled around when she heard his brakes squeal. A wet rag dangled from her hand, and her skin was damp with soap and sweat. Her hand flew to her hair, and she patted it nervously before giving Charlie a little wave. 

Charlie waved back, even though it made him feel like an idiot. But that was better than the production of getting out of the car. He studiously avoided looking at her while he removed the clutch bar and shifted himself out of his truck. 

He needn’t have worried. She had gone back to washing her car, though she seemed to be taking an awfully long time to hose off the suds. Charlie could clearly see the muscles in her back shimmering in the sun as she wielded the hose, and his mouth went dry. 

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed Briar’s shawl off his passenger seat and balled it up in his hand. 

She turned, as if she could feel him making the short walk across the grass of their yards. Her smile was nervous and sweet, and Charlie felt his heart lurch. Along with his loins. He wasn’t sure which was harder to control. 

He wanted to thank her for keeping his secret, and he wanted to know what other secrets she was keeping. He also wanted to pin her up against the car and feel that hot, wet skin under his hands. 

He had to keep that wildness at bay. 

“It’s a good day to wash the car,” he said randomly, feeling like an idiot. 

“I figured … might as well,” Briar said, and Charlie was heartened to see that she was also at a loss for words. “Is that …?”

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie said, and jerkily handed her the shawl she had abandoned in the woods the night of the rockslide. 

“My shawl! I thought it was a goner.” She hastily wiped her hands on her shorts and reached out to take it. When she spread it between her hands, her eager smile dropped. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said sheepishly. “It was dirty from being on the ground. So I washed it.” 

Before he’d dunked the blue shawl in the wash tub, the ethereal fabric had been dusty and dirt-smeared, but still soft and light. Now it was clean, but the delicate web of fluffy strands had somehow warped and tightened so the rosettes had withered into hard fabric nubs.

“You washed it?”

He hunched his shoulders. “I can wash clothes.” 

“Really?”

“Thanks to you, I guess I have to start,” he grumbled. 

She raised her eyebrow quizzically. 

He continued, “I figured, how hard can it be? Throw some soap and some water in there, call it a day. But I guess I used too much soap.”

“Oh, no,” she said, laughter in her voice.

“My clothes came out fine,” he said defensively.

“That’s a lie.”

“Well, they turned out fine after my mom rewashed them,” he amended. “She says I made such a mess of things I have to do all the laundry until I know how to do it right.” 

She grinned at him. “The soap wasn’t the problem. This is merino wool. You can’t get it wet.”

“Then how do you clean it?”

“Well, you try to avoid getting it dirty in the first place.”

He thumped his cane against the ground in irritation. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. What sort of fabric can’t get wet?” 

 Briar pressed her lips together, then fingered a section of shredded fabric. 

 “Oh, yeah,” said Charlie, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, um, well, I tore it. I didn’t have any way to carry it back except, you know, in my mouth.”

“You went and found it as a cat?”

“How else would I?” he asked, gesturing with his cane. “And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy. The damn thing kept getting caught under my paws, or flying over my head.”

Briar snickered, then exploded into full blown giggles when Charlie scowled at her. “I don’t know which is funnier. Imagining you up to your elbows in a laundry basin, or tripping over my shawl as you try to carry it home.”

“Never mind,” he said, reaching out to pull the shawl from her hands. 

“No, Charlie, it’s fine,” she said, still laughing. 

“Tell me where you got it, and I’ll get you another. Wait, let me guess, some fancy shop in Denver, right?”

Briar’s laughter died as quickly as it had bubbled up. She looked down at the shawl in her hands. “No,” she said slowly. “I made it.”

He stepped closer. “You made it?”

“I make all my clothes,” she said, not looking him in the eye. 

“But you’re always talking about going shopping in Denver,” he said. 

She looked up at him quizzically. 

He shrugged. “Angela was always jealous of you for having store-bought clothes.”

“Yeah, that was the point,” she said, smiling ruefully. 

“But why would you lie about that? If you’ve got this kind of talent, why are you pretending someone else made it?”

“I’m not pretending. Not anymore. I just told you the truth.”

She said it so bitterly Charlie knew she resented every word. She was looking down at the pavement, her mouth drawn tight with anger or frustration. He wanted to hear her laugh again. With her sunny hair and sparkling eyes, she should always be laughing. 

Without thinking, he reached out and tipped up her chin until her gaze met his. “You’ve been telling the truth, haven’t you? You can’t lie about a single thing.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Briar

Briar could feel the touch of Charlie’s fingertips all the way to her toes. She noticed for the first time that the stubble on his chin was red, in contrast to the golden brown of his hair. She didn’t know why that tiny detail excited her, except for that she was close to him, close enough to really see him. 

She had known him half her life, but standing close like this, she noticed all the details she had missed. 

She could see every fleck in those remarkable eyes. She could remember the way that hard mouth had been lush and warm against hers. She had been hot as she worked under the sun, but now she felt beads of sweat trickling down her spine for another reason entirely. 

And it wasn’t just lust. He had asked about her power. He had taken her seriously. It was shockingly satisfying just to be believed.

Since the fog, her whole life had been turned upside down, and every time she had tried to talk about it she had been shut down. But here was Charlie Huston, of all people, offering her the chance to open up again. Despite his gruff exterior, Charlie was offering her his ear and his shoulder. 

Tenderness welled up inside her, sweetening the heat. She wanted to nuzzle into his neck, kiss that red stubble under his chin. 

Her throat was suddenly dry at the thought. “Do you want to come inside? It’s hot, and we’ve got sodas in the icebox.”

He flicked a gaze at the house. “Is your cousin here?”

“No,” Briar’s heart sped up. Was he trying to be sure they were alone? “She and my aunt went shopping.” 

“Okay, good,” he said. “I could drink a soda pop.”

She led the way through the garage into the house on wobbly knees. 

She wanted more of his touch, more of his kisses. That was a new sensation for her. She had enjoyed the touch of other men, but it wasn’t like this—this awareness, this yearning. Maybe because she hadn’t really felt a connection with the others. She had been looking for companionship, maybe a little reflected popularity, and sex was the price she had paid for it. 

The thought depressed her. She glanced back at Charlie clumping after her through the living room. She wanted to believe he was different. 

He had said he wanted to trust her, wanted her trust in return. It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

It was cooler in the living room than it had been outside, and Briar felt goosebumps erupt all over her exposed arms and legs. Oh God, she was all wet and sweaty. She knew her hair was probably falling out of her ponytail, and her cut-offs were soapy and damp. 

If there was ever an outfit guaranteed to drive a man away, this was it. Well, at least that tabled the question of what she would do if Charlie kissed her again. She was hardly seductive looking like a drowned rat.

“Kitchen’s this way,” she called, leading him to the back of the house. Her bare feet padded across the black and white linoleum. She dug a pair of colas out of the icebox and set them on the counter next to a couple of glasses, thankful for the cool touch of them in her hand and the sweet breeze billowing through the soft, white curtains over the sink. She had to keep her head on straight. 

She turned around to get the bottle opener and almost ran into Charlie. “Sorry,” he said, and leaned against the counter. 

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice unnaturally high. She found the bottle opener and concentrated on popping the caps and pouring soda into the glasses. The kitchen was a good size, and she and Norine and Patrice frequently worked in here together without feeling cramped. But with Charlie here, the room suddenly felt small. He was so tall, so rangy, so … male. 

She handed him his glass, and the brush of his fingers against hers sent a thrill rushing through her. He took a long sip of his soda, and then set it down beside him. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. About your power.”

“No, I want to,” Briar said, suddenly very interested in drawing circles on the floor with her toe. “I’m just not sure where to start.”

“How about the beginning? You weren’t at the Firelight Festival. You were down in Denver that weekend.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me.”

“I … remember someone mentioning it, that’s all.” 

Lie
, Briar thought. The idea that he might have been looking for her sent a thrill up her spine. 

“So you weren’t exposed to the fog. Everyone seems to think that’s what … changed us.”

“I was there,” Briar said carefully. She had to tell him the truth, but she didn’t have to tell him the whole truth. “I came back early. I wasn’t in the mood for the festival, but I didn’t want to go home, so I drove up to the cliffs and watched. I’ve always liked the woods at night. Peaceful, you know? Although it has been a bit more exciting lately.” 

She peeked up at him. The ghost of a smile around his mouth was encouraging. 

“I was parked on the ridge above the lake. I saw the fog rise up out of the woods and sweep over the party. It was terrifying. All those people screaming and collapsing. I was frozen. By the time I realized I was in danger, it was too late. I tried to make it back to my car, but I didn’t make it three steps before I was on my knees, puking my guts out. It felt like my skin was turning inside out. Was it that way for you?”