Her soft breaths brushed his neck as she tilted up her chin. “No. I hate leaving her, but Lucy’s in good hands while I’m gone.”
A sharp pulse of blood flooded his veins. “Lucy…as in I Love Lucy?”
She smirked. “Indeed.”
Lucy. Bearded dragon. It didn’t seem possible. Another lie, maybe? Like her name? But that wouldn’t explain her knowledge of the term herps. A troubling coincidence. His behavior had been equally as bothersome. He’d been embarrassingly rude to her. Sure, he was sometimes abrupt with women. When struggling with his childhood stutter, he’d kept his sentences as short as possible. The affliction no longer twisted his tongue, but some habits were harder to break. This wasn’t about awkwardness, though. This was about keeping Clementine—festival judge and name-fabricator—at a healthy distance.
As he stood there, though, he couldn’t move away or look directly at her. She was only a head shorter than him, tall for a woman. Her slender fingers drifted along his skin, lower until they slid off his arm. He ached to pull them back. Lucy. Bearded dragon. What were the odds?
“I think we should reintroduce ourselves,” he heard himself say.
Not the thing he should have said. Goodbye. See you around town. Those rebuffs would have been smart. Her judging could interfere with his plan to win this year’s contest, and he wasn’t sure Clementine was being forthright. The fake-name/job explanation had some merit, but she seemed to be guarding secrets. He’d sensed it in her hesitancy the day they’d first met, her quick departure from the diner yesterday, her flawless name story now. He should be wary after his ex-girlfriend’s lies, but there was no fighting this strange connection.
He forced his eyes on her, breathed through the need to glance down. He held out his hand in the small gap between them.
Her lips parted slowly, but she didn’t reciprocate. She grazed her teeth over her lower lip and ducked her head. The same behavior as on the highway. He turned his hand up slightly, like he’d done that day. Her shoulders trembled. Was she distrustful of men? Or of him, specifically?
She finally slipped her hand into his.
His stomach hollowed at the contact, a diving swoop like a kingfisher plunging in mid-air. He couldn’t be sure she felt the same sweeping rush, but he pressed the pads of his fingers to her wrist, felt the jump of her pulse. Yes, Clementine. I feel the same.
“I’m Jack,” he said quietly, as though too much sound would send her scurrying away, “but I also go by Maxwell, and I own a bearded dragon named Ricky.”
Her eyes cut to him, accusing almost. “Ricky?”
“Ricky Ricardo.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Afraid it is.”
“But…” Her breath shuddered.
“Yes?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe we’re not supposed to.”
It really didn’t make sense, meeting this mysterious woman out of the blue. Yet here they were, shaking—no, holding—hands, both with dragons named for the I Love Lucy duo who’d charmed a generation of TV fans. Doubt still lingered at the back of his mind, but it was less persistent.
Clementine shook her head and snatched her hand back. “I totally forgot, but I have somewhere I have to be. Can’t believe it slipped my mind.” She moved as she spoke, walking backward, away from him.
She couldn’t go too far. Not in a town this size. But he had a way to see her sooner. He wanted to see her sooner. “I can help you.”
She kept backing up, fast enough he worried she’d trip. “With what?”
“Anything.” He cringed, unsure how that had snuck out. “Your father, I mean. Anything you need for his birthday present.”
She stumbled slightly as she stopped. “How can you help?”
“I know a tribute artist. Meet me at the diner at nine tonight and we’ll get that photo for him.”
A white lie, considering he was the tribute artist, but showing his passion was easier than explaining it. Performing had changed his life. It connected him to his granddad and had allowed him to be someone other than a stuttering kid with lanky limbs. It made him fearless, bold, seductive. He lost himself on stage, absorbed the bass and lights and applause. When discussing it, he often mumbled and waited for ridicule.
No. He wouldn’t try explaining it to Clementine, but she didn’t seem keen to jump on his offer.
Marvin’s mower whizzed in the distance. Imelda’s dog menagerie yipped and yapped. Another man walked by the pond, enjoying the view. He wasn’t a local, but his thick beard looked familiar, his dark complexion—he was the man who’d snubbed him at the diner. Not the sort he liked invading Whichway, but Elvis fans helped support businesses and filled motels.
The visitor’s aggressive knife tattoo wasn’t visible and he seemed pleasant enough now, busy watching the ducks, while Clementine was busy not replying.
“Okay,” she finally said, but she’d returned to hurrying away, turning as she jogged. “See you at nine.” She ran off, light on her feet.
He stood there, lightheaded as he watched her go.
After last year’s performance loss and his breakup with Ava, he’d promised himself he’d beat Alistair Murphy at this year’s festival, put that cocky weasel in his place. A small part of him also wanted to show up his ex. They’d both used each other—Jack to take a breather from work and enjoy a woman’s company, Ava to further her fledgling singing career. He didn’t want Ava back, but the way she’d manipulated him had left a sour taste in his mouth. It had made him feel inept and naïve. He wanted her in the audience, regret on her face as he wowed the crowd. Petty, but the hint of retribution would feel good.
As long as the win was solid.
After a contestant had seduced a judge to pad his score, they’d instilled a “no fraternization” policy. Friendships were acceptable. Intimate relationships were not. If Jack won the tribute title, but did it while dating a judge, he could be disqualified.
Then there was his father, the more important reason to be named this year’s tribute king.
Every year, Maxwell David the Second beamed while watching Jack perform. Winning was something concrete he could do for his sick father, but the town thought Maxwell was gallivanting abroad, not fighting for his life at home. Jack had lied extensively the past months, ensuring their deception’s success. His father’s idea, but Jack had been the one misleading investors, coworkers, friends. Another sacrifice to keep David Industries afloat.
If Gunther’s sabotage came to light and investors learned their CEO was sick, the business’s stock would plummet. Hundreds would lose jobs. Unless they could announce a technological breakthrough first.
That left Jack twelve days to solve his research obstacle, so they could quit lying, and his father could attend the festival. Watch his son perform one last time before he died. All solid reasons to avoid Clementine, but his mind was thirteen hours ahead, to them at his home, wondering what she’d think of him in his Elvis attire.
6
Clementine neared the Whatnot Diner ten minutes early. She planned to use the seconds to gather herself, because she needed gathering. Her plan had worked. Jack had offered his help and his time. She should be ecstatic, ready to sleuth out the Van Gogh’s location. Instead she kept reliving the jogging trail, her hand fitted into Jack’s as their bizarre similarity had pretzeled her insides.