Take It To The Grave Bundle 1: Take It to the Grave parts 1-3

“Oh, my mom used to make a fantastic pecan pie,” Harry, a young med student from New Orleans, interjected. I moaned at the thought of a slice of good old pecan pie—with lashings of whipped cream.

The tie of my bikini top dug into the back of my neck, and I lifted the cotton tank top away from my chest, trying to allow some of that breeze to brush against my skin, no matter how heated it was. It was hot, and my head was beginning to feel just the slightest bit fuzzy. I wasn’t sure if it was dehydration, drunkenness or a pleasant mix of both.

The breeze shifted, and some of us sitting around the campfire moved to get out of the way of the smoke. I tried to shift, too, but Rich sidled up alongside me, that heavy, hot arm tugging me closer to that solid, heated body. He was doing that a lot lately, as though signaling to all and sundry that we were an item. Normally I don’t mind public displays of affection. Kiss me, hug me, get me hot and panting, but this was beginning to feel just a little bit more than a casual PDA. I raised my glass to my lips and took a big sip of the home brew Chatri had left for us. I still couldn’t pronounce its name, but I’d acquired a taste for it. This was my fourth and I was feeling a pleasant buzz. Well, almost. I could also feel the suffocating weight around my shoulders. I swallowed some more. Yep, there’s that buzz now. I relaxed into the warmth that spread through my chest. Chatri’s home brew could pack a punch, if you let it. It made it easier to forget.

“I miss my sister,” Stacey said softly. “There are so many things I’d love to tell her about this project...”

Nope. I wasn’t going to think about my sister.

Harry nodded. “My dad would love this whole thing,” he murmured, staring into the flames. “He’s an awesome handyman, too. We built this bookshelf together for my mom when I was twelve, for the fabric she uses for patchwork.” His expression turned sombre. “She died a few years ago.” He blinked, then smiled. “But that bookshelf is still standing.”

I sure as hell wasn’t going to reminisce about my mother. I forced myself to focus on the bookshelf part of the story.

Jake put down his guitar. “I miss my dog,” he said, staring morosely into the fire.

I chuckled. “You are such a country song.”

Jake grinned, and Rich twisted slightly to face me.

“What do you miss, Lucy?”

I kept the smile on my face, and raised my eyebrows. “What?” I asked, pretending to not hear the question as my mind raced for an answer. Okay, maybe raced wasn’t the right word. It lurched at a sluggish pace.

“Who or what do you miss from home?” Rich repeated, framing his words too clearly for me to play dumb a second time. Damn it. He was experiencing a brief moment of clarity, of purpose, when I was concentrating really hard on not letting my head loll back. Not fair.

“Ketchup,” I responded, broadening my smile. Ah, good one.

My fellow campfire huddlers groaned, and a line appeared between Rich’s brows. For the first time, my glib response wasn’t cutting it with the group. With Rich.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You’re always joking, always laughing, but you never really tell us anything. About you, anyway.”

For a moment, I wanted to argue, wanted to point out that revealing my heretofore unrealized passion for table condiments was me sharing something personal, but the intent look in Rich’s eyes, the earnestness, interest and puzzlement I read there, his eagerness to learn about me, to connect with me... It was seductive. Exhausting. Tempting. I blinked. Slowly. Chatri’s home brew was burning through my system, calming me. Lowering my defenses. Careful, that little voice inside my head whispered.

“Come on, Lucy. Can you tell us something about yourself? Anything?” Rich urged in a quiet, pleading tone.

I glanced briefly around the campfire. Everyone stared back at me, waiting, anticipating. These were people I’d practically lived with for four months, worked shoulder-to-shoulder with, laughed with, shared meals with, raged at the bureaucracy with, celebrated with, cried with... I glanced back up at the man who held me so tightly, so closely, and who stared at me so hopefully.

I looked him straight in the eye. Well, in his four eyes. I saw two of him, at the moment. I blinked. Nope. There were still two of him. “My real name is Maisey,” I blurted. The soft gasp inside my head was a belated warning bell. You idiot.

Rich blinked, then pushed me away a little. I swayed, coolness washing over me at the loss of contact, the surprising distance that yawned between us. “Shut up,” he exclaimed in disbelief.

I may have been slightly drunk, but even I saw the faint horror, the hurt, in his eyes, the slack-jawed shock. I heard the crashing silence around the campfire. I felt the brittle coolness of our separation like an Arctic blast that was more effective than a cold shower could ever be, freezing the effect of Chatri’s hypnotic potion in my veins, and I saw the crystal clarity of consequences unraveling in my mind’s eye, and what I had to do to avoid them. Fix it, now.

I reacted. Curling my hand into a fist, I slugged him playfully on the shoulder. “‘‘Course it’s not, you idiot,” and laughed as I’d practiced for years, injecting levity that bordered on hysteria, but was apparently enough to void my brief, insane moment of honesty. Rich guffawed as he slung his arm over my shoulders again, tugging me off balance. I kissed him briefly on the lips to shut him up, and Jake started strumming his guitar again as Harry reminisced about his dad’s jambalaya.

I settled back against Rich, pasting a smile on my face as I surreptitiously tipped the rest of my drink into the sand, letting that truth serum poison soak into the beach, never to betray me again.

I let the conversation ebb and flow around me as I stared into the golden flames. That was close. Too close.

* * *

An hour later, I stumbled as Rich leaned on me, but managed to catch my balance before we both face-planted in the scrubby brush that formed a natural barrier between the sea and the village. Rich sniggered. I fetched my phone from my shorts pocket and used the light to illuminate our way back to our hut.

“You would love my mother, you know?” Rich slurred into my ear. “An’ she would love you.”

I almost wished I was drunk enough for this conversation, but I’d stopped drinking after my stupid-ass confession, and my brain function was nearly back to normal. Well, as normal as I could get, anyway. And I was hearing way more than I wanted to. God, I can’t believe I slipped up so badly back there. Moron. I didn’t do sharing, I didn’t do intimacy, I didn’t do truth or dare and I certainly didn’t play happy families. Why hadn’t I seen this coming? Was I blind as well as stupid? Or was I so desperate that I was willing to fool myself into a facade of a relationship with Rich?

“You know, Lucy, when we get back home, we are going to have so much fun,” Rich breathed in my ear, his hand sliding down my back to cup my butt. “Not that we’re not having fun now.”

I shot him a sidelong glance, then turned my attention to where I was going to put my feet without twisting an ankle. “I like fun, too, Rich,” I replied. Maybe he’d get the hint. Fun and games, no strings.

“We’ll buy a house, something that backs onto a beach, great views,” he said, gesturing widely with his arm. “An’ a ham—” he hiccupped “—hammock. In the yard. And we can swing and watch the kids play.”

I stumbled again, my stomach twisting in a coil that threatened to expel Chatri’s homebrew. “Kids?” I tried to keep my tone casual, but Rich was apparently too drunk to notice the high-pitched panic in my voice.

“Yeah, at least two, so they can play together. I’ve always wanted four, but I’ll settle for three. Yeah, three...” Rich nodded, then lurched and had to brace himself against the trunk of a palm tree to prevent himself from falling down.

I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. Three kids. Oh. Dear. God.

“You’re great with kids, you know,” he murmured, pulling me closer and kissing me on my cheek. “You’re going to be a great mom.” That voice inside my head gasped, then choked with laughter, rejecting the concept immediately. Instinctively.

I blinked. No. No, no, no, no. I’d make a horrible mom. I’d make a horrible wife. How could he not see that? I was not settle-down material. The very idea of creating a home, one that couldn’t be packed in twenty minutes and hauled over my shoulder in a backpack at a moment’s notice, was enough to make me want to puke, then cower in the fetal position in the dark somewhere, in a place where I could hide and never be found.

I took a deep breath. It was time to move on.

I sighed in relief when our hut came into view, and I managed to help Rich up the stairs. He was too involved, too invested, in what should have been a trivial, unimportant, fun little hookup. I had to leave.

Overwhelming sadness made me halt in our doorway. I watched Rich stagger toward the mattress on the floor. He was cute. Sexy. Dark hair, dark eyes and a physique that had made me drool when I first met him. He was also nice. Really, really nice. Not complicated, he said what he thought and was casual, laid-back. Where had this serious attachment come from? When had it flared? And why hadn’t I quashed it before now?

Now, he wanted a home by the sea and a hammock we could swing in to watch our three kids play. Talk about suffocating strings.

Rich turned to me, and waggled his eyebrows. “Well, are you coming in?” he asked, and despite the fear clenching my stomach, I had to smile as he swayed his hips suggestively. See—this was fun. He peeled his shirt off his shoulders with an expression that told me he thought he was being sultry and erotic, but in reality looked like he was having a seizure.

I stepped forward and helped him get rid of the garment. He really was a beautiful man, and I knew that as much as I hated doing it, I was going to hurt him. I hated him for putting me in that position, and I hated myself for doing it.

He cupped my cheek, his face going from sexy to concerned in a matter of a few drunken blinks. “Hey, why so sad, sweetheart?”

I opened my mouth. Hesitated. For a moment, Rich blurred, and the memory of Pedro and the orphanage in Belize flashed through my mind.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Pedro cried, running his hands through his hair. “You can’t.”

“Please, Pedro. This was only ever going to be temporary. No strings, remember?”

“No strings?” His voice rose, and I winced at the pain and anger that seemed magnified by the tears welling in his eyes. “That was ages ago, mi amor. We have shared so much, done so much—” he took a step toward me, his expression pleading “—loved so much.”