Concealed Identity. Jessica Patch R.

Blair wanted real honesty. She’d take gruff and unpolished over silvery prose any day.

      “I put the dresser in the back room. Did you want me to haul the other stuff out? Some pillows and bric-a-brac.” Holt stood in the store area, hair still damp from his shower and the scent of his soap wafting through the air. She had to ride with that all day? She must be a glutton for punishment.

      Blair had planned on going to Jeremy’s apartment today to find answers. Now she had to do it with Holt along. Maybe he wouldn’t ask too many questions. But until she was 100 percent sure he wasn’t dangerous, she’d make sure Gigi didn’t go near him. Which meant Blair had to help him supply his store with merchandise—while keeping an eye on him. Everything felt too coincidental. Or the paranoia was getting the best of her again.

      “No. It’s not taking up much room. I’ll get it later. You ready?” Was she? Last night, in between contemplating fatal scenarios, she’d thought about the way he’d slipped into her pretend game so easily. Behind those billion-dollar looks and the killer smile, Holt had some tender spots. Or maybe he was using all that for some hidden agenda.

      I’m being ridiculous. Would a coldhearted killer talk about a boy playing chess and losing a grandpa? Confusion gnawed at her gut. She couldn’t trust her judgment. She’d been dangerously wrong before, but that didn’t stop the way she was drawn to him as he used his vivid imagination. The way he’d arrested her heart with the lovely yet tragic story. Holt had shifted something inside of her. But she’d make sure to remedy the feelings. Remain cautious. Stay guarded.

      “So, where’s Gigi today?” Holt asked as he hopped in the passenger side of her truck.

      “She’s helping out at the senior home.” Which was why Blair chose today to check on Jeremy. She couldn’t shake her suspicion that he was in trouble, and her sister had enough to worry about without being dragged into Blair’s search for answers. “She’s overseeing the weekly activities there.”

      Holt nodded. “How long have you wanted to own your own business?”

      Blair eased by Farley Pass, the ruts in the grass still there from the other day. Her chest constricted. She glanced in her rearview mirror.

      “Since I was sixteen. Before that I wanted to be a race car driver.” She laughed. “How about you?”