My blood begins to boil. No. There has to be a better explanation.

I gather up all the papers, even the ones left in the drawer, and wrap them in an empty file folder I find on the desk.

“I’ll sort through all this later,” I say more to myself than to Daren as I stick the folder in my purse.

He eyes me. “Are you sure?”

I nod and take a deep breath. “Let’s get back to looking for your baseball cards.”

Daren runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think they’re here. We’ve looked pretty much everywhere.” He closes the empty desk drawer. “Let’s just go to the train station.”

Suddenly eager to leave Milly Manor and all my unnerving questions behind, I heartily agree. “Yeah. Okay.”

As we start to leave, Daren’s phone rings. He wriggles it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and answers, “Hey, Ellen.” He listens. “Sure. I can probably run some supplies out to the inn tomorrow. What do you need?”

As he continues his conversation I run my eyes over the desk again, looking for any papers I might have missed regarding the trust fund. My eyes stop on a framed photo at the edge of the desk and I gingerly pick it up.

There are pictures all over Milly Manor, but there is only one in the study. And it’s a picture of Dad and me at the lake when I was nine years old.

We’re each holding a fishing pole and I have on the biggest grin. We didn’t actually fish that day because I thought it was mean to hurt the fishes but he went along with my tender heart and we “pretend fished” all afternoon and ate my favorite sandwiches: peanut butter and jelly with bananas.

In the picture, I’m wearing the heart-shaped locket he gave me for my birthday that year. I lost the necklace years ago, but it was always one of my favorites. My dad used to write me notes on tiny scraps of paper that said things like “I love you,” or “Have a good day,” or “I love being your daddy!” and I’d store them in that locket for safekeeping.

Then when I returned to Chicago, I wore that necklace every day knowing my father’s teeny notes were hidden in the locket. It was like having him with me everywhere I went, tucked inside the heart around my neck.

My eyes start to burn again. He wasn’t always a bad father. In fact, he was the best. Which is probably why it hurt so much when he stopped wanting to see me. And why it still hurts now.

“It seems like your dad really loved you.” Daren’s voice startles me and I blink away the emotion in my eyes. I didn’t realize he was off the phone. “He kept all your pictures up,” he continues, nodding at the photo in my hands. “You two look happy there.”

We do look happy—like a real family. A sinking feeling overwhelms me. I don’t have a family anymore. I barely had one to begin with, but now…

“That was a long time ago.” I put the picture back on the desk. “Let’s go.” Without a word, I lead Daren by the wrist out of the house I grew up in.

Well that didn’t go at all like I’d expected—and not just because I didn’t recover my box of baseball cards. Watching Kayla’s face filter through all those emotions as we moved through the house was rough.

She acts bitter and angry toward her father, but her facial expressions as we walked from room to room were anything but. She’s hurt, obviously, but she also seems sad. And lonely. Two sentiments I’m far too familiar with.

And the fact that she didn’t know about her own trust fund threw another wrench into my pile of Kayla Turner preconceptions. James wasn’t lying about setting up a trust fund for his daughter. But Kayla wasn’t lying about not having one either. Which most likely means Gia was the fibber in the family. Yikes.

I follow Kayla to the car and we climb inside, awkwardly fumbling before finally plopping in our seats.

As she puts her seat belt on and drives away, the wisps of blonde escaping her hair tie drift away from her face revealing her flushed cheeks and blue eyes, lost in thought.

Her lips are coated with some kind of clear gloss, shining against the pale skin of her chin and throat as she bites down on the bottom one. I stare at her bitten lip, now slightly swollen, and the sight of her thighs, right next to my mouth when I sat up from searching under the couch, flashes in my mind.

It was all I could do to not flick my tongue out and run it up the soft skin of her legs. And from the way her eyelids had grown heavy as she stared down at me, she probably would have let me. Hell, she probably would have grabbed my head and directed my tongue where to go.

Growing hard, I shift in my seat and try to get myself under control.

Dammit. I shouldn’t have kissed her last night. If I hadn’t pressed my mouth to hers and felt her tongue roll over mine, then I’d surely have more control over myself today. But I couldn’t help myself. Something about Kayla drew me in like a siren song, enchanting and impossible to resist. And much like the Siren’s prey, I’m now surely doomed. Because now I’ve tasted Kayla and all I want is more.

Things would have been fine if she hadn’t sunk into the kiss with such craving. If she had kissed me back with your typical strangers-kissing-in-a-parking-lot desire—you know, part curiosity, part greed—I could have been satisfied with just one kiss.

But Kayla kissed me back with the passion of a long-lost lover. Desperation on her lips. Sounds of desire escaping her throat. She kissed me back like I was something she needed. I’ve never felt needed like that before.

We come to a stoplight and the engine idles loudly. The light turns green and the engine groans before we’re on the move again. Looking out the windshield, I stare at the rusted hood of her little green car and frown.

Just another unexpected piece of the Kayla Turner puzzle.

Stitched up clothes, empty trust fund, a run-down vehicle…

Is it possible I was wrong about Kayla? Was she telling the truth about being broke?

“So,” Kayla says into the silence. “Instead of leaving our inheritance in a bank account, my father stashed it in a train station locker. Super safe, Dad.”

I quietly laugh. “Yeah, it’s not the most secure place in the world. But I guess it makes sense. He really liked the train station.”

“That’s right,” she says slowly, nodding. A hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “He used to talk about how the train brought Copper Springs to life. He’d say”—she lowers her voice—“Before the train got here, this town was just a plot of land. But the train brought people—”

“And the people brought heart,” I finish.

She smiles with a nod then glances at me curiously. “So what’s the deal with you and my dad? You guys were close?”

I inhale deeply and shrug. “My dad wasn’t the greatest. He was a decent businessman but he wasn’t a great father. Your dad, though, he was all right.” I look at her. “Did you know they used to be good friends, our dads?”

She furrows her brow and shakes her head.

“They were golf buddies,” I say. “I used to caddie for my dad sometimes. Not because I cared about the game but because I liked being around my dad. It made me feel like I was important to him, you know? So Turner—your dad—got to know me when I was a kid on the golf course. My relationship with Pop was strained and Turner saw that.

“Your dad offered me a job taking care of his lawn when I was young and at first I was like hell no. I was a rich kid. I didn’t need to work. But my dad would constantly say, ‘People without money or power are useless to me,’ and being a jobless, powerless kid, I was one of those people. So I thought if I could make my own money then maybe my dad wouldn’t think of me as useless anymore—”

“What?” she squawks, holding up a hand. “No offense, but your dad sounds like a dick.”

I nod. “Oh, he is. Trust me.”