In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(15)

I’m a fairly passive person, but I’m fairly certain my entire head is beet red right now. I want to punch him. My heart is also racing because what he said is catching up with me—he knows where I’m going. Oh my god, he’s following me! He’s been following me!

“Okay, now you’re creeping me out, and I’m about, oh, six seconds away from calling the police,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Who says six seconds?” he asks right away, flustering me. I open my mouth in response, to argue, but shake my head because what? “That’s such an arbitrary number,” he continues. “I mean, okay, then give me a seventeen-second head start, because I have to go put eleven dollars of gas in the car.”

My lips purse tightly, and I work to narrow my eyes, but a small laugh breaks through and betrays me. Damn reflex—that was funny. Fucker. I give in to chuckle once, hard, and I try to make it sound mean. I shake his charm off quickly, because it’s still strange that he’s here, and knows that I’m going home. Oh god—does he know where I live?

“Why are you here, Casey?” I ask, hoping this is all going to be explained away with some niece, nephew, cousin, or relative that goes to or teaches at the school, too.

“I called your mom,” he says.

Damn. There goes that theory. And the fact that he knows where I am and my schedule is becoming way more clear. Jeanie Sullivan wants to play matchmaker. And now, she knows Casey is real, so she has a pawn. Only he’s the worst possible game piece in my life. There were so many better options. Hell, the guy at the coffee shop on the corner, the one with the comb-over and affection for short-sleeved button-down shirts. Why couldn’t she have picked him to give my itinerary to?

“Why did you call my mom?” I ask, my hand instinctively pinching the bridge of my nose. Something else hits me, though, and I shake my head and hold my hand to the side, incredulous again. “And how do you know where to find my mom? You don’t know my mom.”

“I looked her up. I heard your song,” he says. I nod, because deep down I knew that was why he was here. I knew the second I saw him.

“It’s not about you. So just…I mean, I’ll change the name or the lyric if that’s what’s bugging you,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“No, that’s not why I wanted to find you. But…wow, I’ve never met an artist so ready to butcher a hit to get someone to go away,” he says, leaning against Houston’s car and stretching one arm out to the side.

I squint as I look up at him, the sun bright behind his form. He looks like a movie poster, except that the car in the poster probably wouldn’t be such a piece of crap, and it would probably be dent-free.

“You think it’s a hit?” I ask, my lips purse with skepticism. I hate that I’m engaging him.

He chuckles and moves his thumbs to his pockets, nodding as he crosses his ankles. He looks like f*cking Jake Ryan.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says, and my stomach gets all tight at the mere threat of a deal with Casey Coffield.

“Ah no, it’s okay. Never mind,” I say, shutting my door and turning the key quickly. Forget suing him. I’m getting a restraining order.

I back out of my space and pull out of the parking lot as quickly as possible, but every time I catch the reflection in the rearview mirror, I see the front of Houston’s car. I consider taking a long route home, but I know that won’t matter—thank you, mom!—so I stick with my leisurely pace and pull into my driveway, getting out and waiting for him to exit Houston’s car behind me.

“I know where you live. Your mom sent me here first,” he says the moment he steps from the car.

“Unbelievable,” I say, moving to the back seat to get out my guitar. “She gave you my work address, too? Just in case you were early?”

He shakes his head no, and I pull in my brow.

“It’s a small town. So I just Googled the school. She said you worked at one,” he says.

“Wow, what a crack detective you are,” I say, snarkier than I normally am. Snarkier than I ever am. He’s making me snarky!

My head is starting to hurt from the tight bun my hair is twisted in, so I pull the two pins out and hold them in my teeth, running my fingers along my scalp to massage my head and comb through my hair.

“Your hair…was it always so long and…purple?” he asks.

I freeze, catching just enough of what he said to realize.

“You don’t remember me?” I ask, my head cocked to one side, my eyes zeroing in on his. He may be charming as hell, but damn if he’s bad at poker faces. “Oh. My. God. You don’t remember me!”

I laugh harder, slamming the car door to a close and pulling my purse and guitar strap up over my shoulder.

“I sort of remember you,” he stammers, walking behind me to the front door.

I ignore him, pushing my key in and stepping up into the foyer of our small house. Lane will be home in a few minutes, and I want Casey gone.

“You are such a…” I start, but his hand holds the doorknob as I try to shut the door from the inside, and he cuts me off. Restraining order happening ASAP!

“I’m a lot of things. I know, trust me. I’ve been told,” he says. I laugh at first, but his eyes meet mine in our small struggle with the door, and there’s a certain unfiltered honesty in them that I must give him credit for. The quiet that accompanies them makes me listen, but I keep my muscles poised to push and punch, my vocal cords ready to scream.