The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(90)

Toby’s sleepy voice drifted through the screen door. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I—couldn’t sleep.”

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“No. What about you? Why are you up?”

“I don’t know. Just woke up.” He yawned and came out to sit next to her. His shoulder brushed her arm. The sleepy, sweaty boy smell of him reminded her of summer nights with her brothers when they’d sneak into one another’s rooms and tell ghost stories.

He spoke through another yawn. “Thanks for the ice cream tonight.”

She cleared the lump in her throat. “You’re welcome.”

“A lot of kids are scared of the dark, but not me,” he announced.

She wasn’t either. She had too many real things to be afraid of.

He leaned over to examine a scab on his ankle. “Could we maybe invite Mike over for dinner soon?”

She began to bristle, then realized he’d handed her the perfect method to begin mending her relationship with Mike. One way or the other, she had to make him believe she’d put the past behind her.

“Sure we can.” She briefly wondered when she’d become so cold-blooded, but standing on principle now seemed to be a luxury only the wealthy could afford. “I think it’s time we both got some sleep.” She rose from the step.

“I guess.” He got up. “Do you think he’d like cowboy casserole?”

“Definitely.”

They went inside, and as Toby headed for his bedroom, she called out to him the same way she did every night, “Good night, Toby.”

This time he answered her back. “G’night, Bree.”



AUGUST SETTLED IN FOR GOOD, bringing more sunny, humid days along with the occasional fierce thunderstorm. Most nights, Lucy and Panda met on the boat or in her room, but an unsettling intensity had replaced their playful kinkiness. There were no more strip searches, no more licorice whips. And during the day they bickered.

“Did you use yesterday’s grounds to make this coffee?” Panda said as he splashed the contents of his newly poured cup down the sink.

“You bitch if I make the coffee. You bitch if I don’t,” Lucy retorted.

“Because you refuse to follow directions.”

Temple gave a long-suffering sigh from her perch on top of the kitchen step stool where she was eating half a thinly sliced apple. She’d slicked her hair into its customary long ponytail, a style that put her almond-shaped eyes and increasingly sharp cheekbones on full display. She’d been on the island a little over six weeks. The fleshy cushion beneath her chin had disappeared, and her long, toned legs testified to her hard work. But instead of being happy, she’d grown tenser, more short-tempered, sadder.

“Your directions,” Lucy said to him.

“Which work a hell of a lot better than whatever it is you’re doing,” he retorted.

“In your opinion.”

“Children!” Temple exclaimed. “Do not make me spank.”

“Let me,” Panda drawled.

Lucy curled her lip at him and left the kitchen to take the kayak out. She resented the tension between them. She wanted the fun back. Without fun, what was the point of this affair?

She was glad when the water got so choppy she had to focus all her attention on paddling.



TEMPLE APPEARED FOR DINNER THAT night in a clean version of the workout clothes she wore all day. Her body was muscular perfection. Her black racer-back top exposed arms with every tendon defined, and her matching Spandex shorts rode low enough to showcase a hollowed-out, muscle-rippled abdomen. She and Panda together were a matched set—both of them overexercised, restless, and surly.

Lucy muttered something about two nutcases on human growth hormones. Temple glanced at Lucy’s waist and made a reference to an aimless loser with middle-aged spread. Panda growled at them both to shut up so he could eat tonight’s crap in peace.

Unlike Panda, Lucy had no complaints about the underseasoned frozen beef stew—thanks to the sweet potato fries and giant sugar cookie she’d downed in town. Temple began a halfhearted lecture about the link between childhood illnesses and adult immunity, and when she asked Panda if he’d ever had chicken pox. Lucy couldn’t resist butting in. “Privacy intrusion. Panda doesn’t talk about his past.”

“And that galls you,” Panda retorted. “You won’t be satisfied until you know everybody’s business.”

But he wasn’t everybody. He was her lover.

“He’s right, Lucy,” Temple said. “You do like to poke around in other people’s heads.”

Panda flipped sides by pointing a fork at his employer. “Somebody needs to poke around in yours. The longer you’re here, the bitchier you get.”

“That’s a lie,” Temple retorted. “I’ve always been bitchy.”

“Not this bitchy,” Lucy said. “You’ve lost twenty pounds, and—”

“Twenty-four,” Temple said defiantly. “No thanks to either of you. Do you have any idea how depressing it is listening to you snarl at each other?”

“Our snarling doesn’t have anything to do with your problem,” Lucy said. “You have a textbook case of body dysmorphia.”