“I don’t understand.”
She sighed and caught her lower lip, and for a second, he thought her eyes filled. But then she blinked and nodded. “Okay, then. Um, wow. Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?”
Yes. Yes, he was very sure he didn’t want to talk about the fact that he thought he’d just seen somebody murdered in his memories. And he was quite sure he was involved or—please no—even to blame. So, no. Not at all. “I’m fine.”
“Right,” she said softly. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” She walked away, back to the pub.
He watched her go. She was pretty. Real pretty, the kind of pretty that would stay with a man, make him remember her.
Shoot, did he know her? But if he did, why didn’t she say anything? And how could he know her if she was a member of the congregation?
Maybe he was just so desperate to find anything familiar he was now assigning meaning to random moments. He needed to calm down and start settling into the fact that he was Mack Jones.
Mack Jones, who belonged here now.
The old Mack had died in that car crash.
This Mack would rebuild with sturdier stuff.
And even if the past wanted to find him, he wasn’t going to let it.
It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be York.
RJ climbed up the ladder, holding the long brush, trying not to breathe in the chemicals of the cleaning solution.
Her eyes burned. She wanted to blame the burn on the chemicals, but really…
Her disappointment was a hot ball in the pit of her stomach.
Mack looked exactly like York, even with the thick beard. She couldn’t see the scar on his neck to confirm, but his profile, his physique, even the way he held himself as he’d talked to the pastor, his shoulders wide, his hands on his hips—all the York she’d known.
And Mack weirdly possessed the same toe-curling accent, that delicious British accent from York’s time overseas, learning English in Russian schools.
But clearly, it was just a coincidence.
Still, she’d been so sure.
She couldn’t stop herself from coming up to him when he walked into the building. She’d nearly—oh, so nearly—called him by his name.
Instead, just in case he was undercover, she’d played his game.
He’d just stared at her, then gasped. And for a split second, she thought…and then Raven had walked up, put a proprietary hand on his arm, and any recognition had vanished.
Just to be sure, RJ gave him a name that he might recognize. The name that might put a twinkle in his eye and confirm to her that inside this lumberjack there lived the man who she knew and loved.
Sydney. As in Sydney Bristow from Alias. And he was her Vaughn. The running joke between them about how she had gotten in over her head and desperately wanted to be a super-agent.
But nothing. No twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes. No smirk to his angular mouth, no catch in his wide chest.
As if it meant nothing to him.
So she’d taken a brush and gone to work, trying to figure out what his game was.
She kept one eye on him as he talked with the pastor. She hadn’t realized she’d joined a church group, but apparently it made for a good cover.
Then Raven had returned with donuts, and the guy at the end of the row dropped his ladder on the floor, and suddenly York freaked out right before her eyes.
He’d bolted toward the back room, and RJ had taken it as her chance to get him alone.
The poor man was breathing hard and shaking, as if he might be having some sort of panic attack. So not like York at all that the first sliver of real doubt took root.
Then RJ had touched his back, called his name, and he flinched. Whirled around so fast, a look in his eyes that had her jerking back because for a second she was on the train with him, watching his reflexes as he protected her from an attacker.
His blue eyes cut down into hers with such steely strength and hard-edged abruptness that it could only be York.
Of course it was York.
Except again, he stared at her as if he didn’t know her. So she’d tested him with the little memory of the Russian train station where she’d almost been shot by an assassin. Where he’d said goodbye to her and told her that he’d find her, again, someday.
Nada. Nothing. Not even when she spoke in Russian to him.
She’d told him she didn’t believe him.
He didn’t even blink.
He didn’t know her.
Or, and she could hardly bear this thought, but any good analyst had to consider it—he was trying to forget her.
Just like her mother said.
A fresh start, leaving his past behind.
Well, Shelly, Washington, was certainly the place to do it. Quaint, tight-knit, and the members of the community had already adopted him as their own.
Especially the dark-haired one who now stood beside York-slash-Mack, laughing at something he said.
No, he couldn’t be her York. She was a fool.
RJ climbed down the ladder, started on the lower section of the wall. She’d leave at lunch break, sneak away, and…
York was dead. She had to let that truth into her soul—
“Do you know him?”
She turned.
Raven stood beside her, her voice low, her blue eyes searching RJ’s.
RJ shot a look at York, back to Raven. “Um…I…” Because if he was undercover, then… “I don’t…no. I don’t know him.”
“Oh. Okay.” She made a face. “I saw you go into the back, and when he came out, he couldn’t stop looking at you, so I thought maybe you recognized him.”
RJ kept her voice even. “He looks like someone I used to know.”
Raven raised an eyebrow. “Oh, uh, really?”
RJ frowned, not sure— “Yes. But he died.”
“Oh.” Raven put her hands in her back pockets. “I see.” She offered a smile. “My name is Raven.”
“R—Sydney.”
“You’re not from around here.”
Shoot, she’d blown her cover already?
“I heard about the fire and wanted to help.”
“Huh. Well, that was nice of you.” She glanced toward Mack. “He’s been a huge help to my dad since we hired him. He can cook and bartend and apparently rebuild pubs too.”
He could? The only memory she had of York cooking was tea he made in Moscow.
So, clearly not him. “You’re Raven Darnell,” she said, remembering her last name. “I saw you singing last night.”
Raven brightened. “You heard me?”
“That cover you did from the Yankee Belles was great.” She didn’t want to mention that she actually knew the Belles and that, well, Raven could use a little work.
Okay, so maybe her opinion was a little tainted.
“Thanks. I love their stuff. They’re supposed to be coming in concert with NBR-X in a few weeks in Spokane. I’m trying to get tickets.”
And if RJ were a really good person, she might speak up, offer to help land those tickets.
But her gaze kept casting over to Mack. And the way his was casting back to her.
And the buzz she felt under her skin.
Or maybe he was looking at Raven.
Raven seemed to catch his gaze and frowned.
Quick—“Your dad was the one he saved in the fire, right?”