The Imposter Marin Montgomery (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

family tradition for the choose-and-harvest method, where we would cut down our own, in early December.

“Dad’s still chugging away at the tree business.”

“Seriously?” I screech. “I figured he’d have handed that off to one of you boys by now.”

“He says he’ll try for next year, but he always has to have multiple irons in the fire.”

“Is Bryce taking over, or are you quitting the force?” His brother is two years older than him, and both are in constant competition to be the favorite child. The sour expression on his face tells me that hasn’t changed.

“He’ll have to, since I’m about to get a promotion.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his posture straightens in an attempt to puff out his chest. “The police chief’s finally retiring next year.”

“Congratulations!” I joke. “I’ll send you both a bottle of room-temperature vodka.”

“Hmm . . .” He taps a finger against his chin. “I don’t trust your brand preferences. I’d sooner siphon gas from the tank than drink that poison.”

With another glance at my driver’s license, he motions to the squad car. “Let me go run this, get the tire gauge, and I’ll be back.”

“You know, you’re only prolonging my arrival,” I say. “My mother’s going to be all over your ass for keeping me.”

“I should be over hers. Deborah never told me you were coming for a visit.” He shakes his head sadly.

I’m aloof. “It’s a bit of a . . . surprise.”

“Surprise?” He fixes me with a stern look. He knows my mother hates surprises. Then he softens his gaze. “Though truth be told, I’m glad to see you. You must’ve come home because you heard the news.”

“What news?” I pop my sunglasses back over my eyes to conceal my bewilderment. “Did something happen?”

Narrowing his eyes at me, Fletch asks when we last communicated.

I shrug. “I wrote her a few letters, and I didn’t hear back . . .” My voice trails off. “Was this recently?”

He shifts his weight onto his other leg. “I think you’ll see that the farm doesn’t look quite the same.”

“What do you mean?”

He scratches a mosquito bite on his arm. “She’s having a hard time.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She called into the station a couple weeks ago.”

“About what?” My stomach drops. “Is she okay?”

“I took the call.” He motions in the opposite direction. “Deborah almost crashed into the ditch a couple miles from the farm.”

“Was she avoiding a deer or coon?”

“No. She thought she saw an animal, though.” He adds, “She was pretty shaken up. Said she’d been having trouble with her eyesight.”

“Hmm . . .” I offer, “Maybe she just needs an appointment with her optometrist. I’ll ask her. Speaking of poor judgment, I bet she wishes she could have avoided seeing you.” I whistle. “If I remember correctly, you hit the Eisenburgs’ award-winning heifer and our mailbox.”

“That old cow was blocking the road,” he protests, handing me back my license. “I hope you know I’ve buried the hatchet with Deborah.”

As he fixes me with a hard stare, my cheeks redden. My mother always blamed Fletch erroneously for a broken window that wasn’t his fault, but I never set the record straight. I’d scored free concert tickets from a radio station during my junior year of high school. Kristin was dating Bryce at the time, and all four of us went together. Our parents found out, and by the time we got home, we had no idea that we were busted. I had left a ladder hidden, the kind you use to escape a fire, but my dad had locked my bedroom window so I couldn’t sneak back inside. I know he meant for me to come in the front door and face him, but Kristin threw a rock and shattered the glass so we could crawl back inside. My mother blamed Fletch because he stuttered and choked on his words for years at the mention of that night.

My throat becomes dry when I think about how junior year was the last time life felt normal. Everything went into the gutter in my senior year.

“Yeah. I should’ve told her the truth.”

“There’s more . . .” He opens his mouth, but a crackle comes through his radio, his name loud and clear. He speaks into the receiver and tells dispatch he’ll be right there. “I gotta take this.” Waving a hand, he says, “Just be cognizant of your surroundings. I’m not trying to scare you, but things have changed since your time, when we could just leave the doors unlocked. You probably know this, since you moved to a big city and all. Safety is an illusion. And go to bed.” His pointed stare is directed at my bloodshot eyes and limp hair in need of a wash. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Good thing I only have two miles to go.” I grin. “But okay. And thanks.” I wrinkle my nose at him. “That’s a nice way of telling me I look like shit.”

A smile curls at his lips. “You know you can always count on me to tell the truth.”

I try not to show my disgust. His truth isn’t always factual; many times it’s a matter of opinion. His opinion.

As I’m taking the Toyota out of park, he slaps his hand on the open window to get my attention. “And Sibby?”

Pausing with my foot on the accelerator, I wait.

“I’ll give you a warm town welcome back to these parts if you slow the hell down.” He bites his lip. “Please drive safely. We don’t want to lose any more family members.” His eyes linger on mine a second too long. “Or have any more accidents.”

With a withering smile, I tuck the plastic back in my wallet. The word hits me like the sound of a pistol at the start of a race. I’m swiftly transported back in time to a difference of opinion between Miles Fletcher and me. We both have a different view of the turn of events, how they unfolded, and where to lay the blame.

I