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

words can never hurt me. Whoever coined that phrase didn’t understand the power of language. His words still haunt me to this day, especially with what transpired after our parking lot fight.

As I shake my head to rid myself of the memories, Fletch’s voice echoes from above. “Sibby, is that you down there?”

After exiting the small, closet-like room, I quickly shove the door shut and brush my dusty and sweaty palms on my thighs. “I’m here.” I stand at the foot of the ladder.

His head pops over the loft. “I thought I’d come to check on you. Had no idea I’d find you in the barn.”

“I was looking for the pregnant cat,” I offer dumbly.

“You coming up, or am I coming down?”

Fletch doesn’t know about my terror of climbing into the loft and being so close to tragedy. It’s pointless to tell him now.

“Down, because I’m not feeling so great.” I wipe a hand across my sweaty, pained forehead. “It’s like a hundred degrees in here. Feels like a steam room.”

“You’re from the desert. This heat shouldn’t rattle you.”

“It’s a dry heat,” I murmur. “This is humid and hot.”

Slinking down the ladder, Fletch says, “You’re lucky I came out here.”

“I am?”

Before he can respond, his eyes latch on to my injured face. “Shit.” He whistles. “What happened to you?”

I feign ignorance with a shrug.

“You look like you got in a catfight.”

“That’s a real possibility out here.”

“Seriously, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I tripped over a lamp last night.” Conscious of my bare feet and perspiration, I move toward the outside and sunshine, giving us some distance. “Guess I’m still clumsy.”

Fletch passes me a bandana out of his pocket, and I gratefully dab the sweat and tears from my face.

Checking out my reflection in the side mirror of his jacked-up truck, I can see the welt on my forehead, red and angry. I lightly touch the purplish bruising, which highlights my right eye.

I flinch. “Did I get in a bar brawl last night trying to protect you?”

“It certainly looks that way.” He prods, “You need to put some ice on that head of yours.”

“Speaking of protection, why no police cruiser? Do you usually pounce around like a mischievous cat looking for barn mice on your off time?” I lean against his truck.

“If you must know”—he drags his toe in the dirt—“I came to make sure you were okay.”

“You mean babysit,” I moan.

“We used to be best friends,” he offers. “I’ve never liked to see you upset.”

“You ruined that.” I push his snot rag back in his hand.

“Two-way street, honey.” Tucking the red fabric back in his pocket, he says, “And crazy as this sounds, I wanted to check on Deborah.”

“I’m confused.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You blame her for everything that happened in the past, and now you’re a friendly neighbor? What’s the catch?”

“She dialed 911 this morning and hung up. I told the officer on duty I’d check on her.”

“About what?” I’m suddenly fearful.

“I don’t know.” He cocks his head at me. “When I pulled in, I noticed the barn door was open. Thought I’d check it out first just to be on the safe side.”

“I’ll go in and check on her.” I shrug. “She probably forgot I was home.”

He shakes his head. “I’m telling you, you need to talk to her. I think living on the farm is becoming a little much in more ways than one. She’s losing her grip out here. Maybe a change of scenery would do her some good.”

I stare down at my dirty feet. I’ll never admit to him I have the same concerns.

“She’s stopped taking care of the yard,” Fletch continues. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the mess inside the house.”

“What do you expect?” I snap. “She was attacked. I think she’s scared to be outside by herself.”

“What about inside?” Fletch asks. “The old Deborah never would’ve let her house become a pigsty.”

“She had a mice infestation,” I argue. “And she’s . . . she’s redecorating. I’m helping donate a bunch of shit, and we’re cleaning it up.”

“She calls the police all the time, paranoid someone is watching her.”

“Obviously, with good reason!” I yelp. “She got the shit beat out of her. Besides,” I add, glaring, “you’ve always thought she was crazy.”

“And was I wrong?” He stares me down with his green eyes. “We’re all worried . . .”

“Let me guess, the folks in town?”

“Yeah, people.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I heard through the grapevine she told some people she’s moving to Florida with her boyfriend, yet no one has seen her with anyone.”

“What business is it to you who she dates?” I retort. “Maybe I’m helping her enter the dating pool!”

“Nice try, Sibby. This was before you arrived.”

“Fletch, I appreciate the concern,” I say pointedly. “But in your position, I’d be worried about the rash of home invasions. It’s like you’re deflecting because you don’t have any suspects.”

Snorting, he seems incredulous. “Oh, is that so?” He rests against the hood of his souped-up truck. “I wasn’t happy when they built that men’s prison a couple miles outside of town, no. But we think the suspect or suspects were seeking money or drug paraphernalia.”

“And that makes it any less scary?” I argue. “Having someone that’s erratic and high is a relief?” A trickle of cold sweat creeps down the back of my ripped camisole.

“I’m not saying that, Sibby. Just trying to be straight with you.”

“Oh, I get it!” I hold up my index finger. “You’re still angry about the past.”

He crosses his arms defensively, his jaw set.

“Spreading useless gossip already ruined two families.” I move closer so I can lean into his face. “Sure you wanna do it again?”

“Dammit, Sibby!” He grasps my shoulders. “Not everything is an attempt to get back at you. Look . . .” He shakes me for a moment, then drops his hands to his sides. “None of that matters anymore. I’m not mad at your recollection, and you shouldn’t be upset at mine.”

The trembling staccato in my head takes a